A. J. H.
From the Southern Literary Messenger (August 1844)
On Reading the Odyssey
The wise Ulysses, honored once of Kings,
When he, a beggar, sat at his own gate,
Had still three friends, who loved him as when great--
And each to man like his own shadow clings.
No change in them from change of fortune springs,
Wealth, poverty, lofty or low estate,
Fame, infamy, by his own faults or fate,
These all they look on as indifferent things.
Ill-treatment sours not them--harsh words are breath,
Or still they love, even if they moan and mope,
And will be parted from him but by death;
Cheerfully he may with misfortune cope,
And find some flowers even in life's dreariest path,
Who still has left his Wife--his Dog--and Hope!
Columbia, S. Carolina. A. J. H.