Showman:_

I say: God let him see
And taste and know this misery that he makes.
He strains a poor man's spirit till it breaks,
And then he hangs him, while a poor man's gift
He leaves unhelped, to wither or to drift.
Sergeants at city gates are all his care.
We are but outcast artists in despair.
They dress in scarlet and he gives them gold.

_King Cole:_

Trust still to Life, the day is not yet old.

_The Showman:_

By God! our lives are all we have to trust.

_King Cole:_

Life changes every day and ever must.

_The Showman:_

It has not changed with us, this season, yet.

_King Cole:_

Life is as just as Death; Life pays its debt.

_The Showman:_

What justice is there in our suffering so?

_King Cole:_

This: that not knowing, we should try to know.

_The Showman:_

Try. A sweet doctrine for a broken heart.

_King Cole:_

The best (men say) in every manly part.

_The Showman:_

Is it, by Heaven? I have tried it, I.
I tell you, friend, your justice is a lie;
Your comfort is a lie, your peace a fraud;
Your trust a folly and your cheer a gaud.
I know what men are, having gone these roads.
Poor bankrupt devils, sweating under loads
While others suck their blood and smile and smile.
You be an artist on the roads a while,
You'll know what justice comes with suffering then.

_King Cole:_

Friend, I am one grown old with sorrowing men.

_The Showman:_

The old are tamed, they have not blood to feel.

_King Cole:_

They've blood to hurt, if not enough to heal.
I have seen sorrow close and suffering close.
I know their ways with men, if any knows.
I know the harshness of the way they have
To loose the base and prison up the brave.
I know that some have found the depth they trod
In deepest sorrow is the heart of God.
Up on the bitter iron there is peace.

In the dark night of prison comes release,
In the black midnight still the cock will crow.
There is a help that the abandoned know
Deep in the heart, that conquerors cannot feel.
Abide in hope the turning of the wheel,
The luck will alter and the star will rise.

His presence seemed to change before their eyes.
The old, bent, ragged, glittering, wandering fellow,
With thready blood-streaks in the rided yellow
Of cheek and eye, seemed cha