Montefiore by Ambrose Bierce — Read

I saw -- 'twas in a dream, the other night -- / A man whose hair with age was thin and white: / One hundred years had bettered by his birth, / And still his step was firm, his eye was bright.

Before him and about him pressed a crowd.

Each head in reverence was bared and bowed, / And Jews and Gentiles in a hundred tongues / Extolled his deeds and spoke his fame aloud.

I joined the throng and, pushing forward, cried, / "Montefiore!" with the rest, and vied / In efforts to caress the hand that ne'er / To want and worth had charity denied.

So closely round him swarmed our shouting clan / He scarce could breathe, and taking from a pan / A gleaming coin he tossed it o'er our heads, / And in a moment was a lonely man!