When long ago he wandered here,
Heart-hungered, sick and poor,
No roof was been to shelter him
No welcome at the door.
In all the streets of Monterey,
With sun and shine aflame,
No word was passed that there might know
The Prince of Dreamers came.
There sped no song to meet him
From lute or lifted lyre,
When here the Master Singer passed
To seek his Heart's Desire.
No hand was raised to help him,
No lips with cheer to greet,
Till worn with fast and weariness
He fainted at their feet.
Then one there was who lifted up
The fever-tortured head,
And took him to his pitying heart,
And gave him drink and bread
Gave him a shelter and a bed,
Nor asked his name to know
And of all the men of Monterey
It is to him I'll go.
It is to this old, kindly man
That I will go today,
The thanks of all the grateful world
And my poor thanks to say.
Let from the shores the wild waves break
In mist and white sprays flung,
Let from the ancient Mission tower
The Angelus be sung;
Let all the tales they tell be told,
But just one tale for me
And 'tis of him who sleeps afar
Beyond that sun-kissed sea;
Whose dreams I know, whose songs I sing,
Though dead he lies and still
"The sailor who is home from sea,
The hunter from the hill."