The other day it was not long ago
A beggar went to one who makes a show;
Not for himself the beggar's tale was told,
But for a widow, starving, sick, and old.
He whom he prayed is rich, and oft displays
His generous name in ostentatious ways.
With bland exterior, Dives sat and heard
The piteous story, answering not a word
Till it was done. " A little, sir, will serve,"
The pleading suppliant ventures to observe.
"A little, sit!" said Dives, as he showed
The spacious front door of his big abode;
"A little, sir! remember when you call,
I never, sir, do anything that's small!"

There is no fact than this more sadly sure –
The poor's best friends and lovers are the poor.
In secret places, far from pomp and pride,
The kind affections of the soul abide.
Round some rude hearthstone in a homely room,
Where one pale candle but reveals the gloom,
Sit robust Poverty and stalwart Toil,
The duteous children of a sterile soil.
No beggar goes unaided from their door;
Vagrants and outcasts share their scanty store.
In Heaven's regard, they know that none are good,
And yield to starving vice their hard-earned food.
No thankless murmurs of their burden tell;
God wills it so, and therefore it is well.
Where the sick languish, wretched and obscure,
The poor physician ministers a cure;
Where the swift plague his myriad victims slays,
The serge-clad monk through desolation strays;
Where, in wide hospitals, the dying groan,
Thy sisters, Charity, come meek and lone;
Where, to the idols of his murderous hands,
Bends the far habitant of desert lands,
The Colporteur, armed only with his staff;
Hold's Christ's blest cup for misery to quaff;
Sheds his own blood to pour the atoning wine –
In thought, how human! action, how divine!