SILENCE.
On sensibility unwarranted
By wealth. Distress, with heavy, mildew blight,
Blackens each flower that else would cheer his path;
It steals health's steady lustre from his glance,
Draws his pale lip into a stronger curve—
Pinches his lank cheek—whitens his thin hand,
And saps the very roots of joy and hope:
But none may dream of the consuming fire
That spends his oil of life. He does not show
The vagrant's rags, and tell the whining tale
Of doleful falsehood. He has never learnt
To shape his language in beseeching tone,
And stand a mendicant beneath the roof
Of some rich kin—who gives such good advice
To qualify the charitable gold,
That proud and honourable palms shrink back,
And rather grapple with the spectre hand
Of Famine, than accept the boon so granted.
He is not one of the contented poor
Who, if they have their simple meals insured,
Care not, though thousands mark the trencher'd scrap,
And spurn it! He is not a mindless brute,
To meet misfortune in a ruffian garb,
And leap the low-pitch'd barrier that parts
Mean, shivering Want, from bold and well-fed Crime.
Mix'd with the wealthy crowd he walks erect,
And screens his beggar's fester from the world,
As closely as the Spartan boy of old
Hid the fierce talons tearing out his heart.
By wealth. Distress, with heavy, mildew blight,
Blackens each flower that else would cheer his path;
It steals health's steady lustre from his glance,
Draws his pale lip into a stronger curve—
Pinches his lank cheek—whitens his thin hand,
And saps the very roots of joy and hope:
But none may dream of the consuming fire
That spends his oil of life. He does not show
The vagrant's rags, and tell the whining tale
Of doleful falsehood. He has never learnt
To shape his language in beseeching tone,
And stand a mendicant beneath the roof
Of some rich kin—who gives such good advice
To qualify the charitable gold,
That proud and honourable palms shrink back,
And rather grapple with the spectre hand
Of Famine, than accept the boon so granted.
He is not one of the contented poor
Who, if they have their simple meals insured,
Care not, though thousands mark the trencher'd scrap,
And spurn it! He is not a mindless brute,
To meet misfortune in a ruffian garb,
And leap the low-pitch'd barrier that parts
Mean, shivering Want, from bold and well-fed Crime.
Mix'd with the wealthy crowd he walks erect,
And screens his beggar's fester from the world,
As closely as the Spartan boy of old
Hid the fierce talons tearing out his heart.
Love hath its utterance of magic sound,
When soft confession calls the ruddy flush
Into the maiden's cheek, and gentle vows
Breathe whisper'd music in the willing ear;
Even as the nightingale is said to woo
The listening rose. And Love, too, hath its kind
And merry mood of fond loquacity;
When soft confession calls the ruddy flush
Into the maiden's cheek, and gentle vows
Breathe whisper'd music in the willing ear;
Even as the nightingale is said to woo
The listening rose. And Love, too, hath its kind
And merry mood of fond loquacity;
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