Poems (Charlotte Allen)/The Charity Box
THE CHARITY BOX.
It was the hush of day;The "tired breezes" had ceased their sportiveness,And were resting from their busy office.With a hallowed stillness the air seemed tinged;Not e'en a bee's soft murmur intrudedOn the silence; the leaves hung motionless,While nature's gentle warblers sought repose.A soft and lovely pensiveness stole o'erThe earth's bright surface; while a drowsinessHad touched the flowers, for they bowed their heads:Like worshippers before some holy shrine. So sacred was the hour I scarce dared breathe,Fearing to disturb what looked devotionOn the page of nature. I had wandered far,And sought the village church-yard to indulgeIn sober thought, amid the moss-grown carvedMemorials of departed loved ones.The church that stood upon that quiet spot,For many years had graced that rustic hamlet;While Time's unsparing hand had rudely touchedThis venerable monument of daysLong past, whose fallen state, proclaimed inLanguage mute but eloquent, that aSeparation must, ere long, ensue. Beside that Church's porch,A little box was placed, strongly appealingTo the hearts of all who passed that way,—For Charity; which none could help perceive,Save those who wilfully were blind; and itWas deemed a stain upon the hearts of thoseWho passed it by unnoticed. I had markedA bright-eyed boy, who though alone, had pleasedHimself in gathering wild flowers, that bloomed inRich luxuriance o'er that hallowed place; And now he turned to go, but paused as heApproached that sacred edifice where oftHe entered: his hand was thrust within hisPocket, seeking an offering for theBox that stood before him: he seemed ashamedTo leave the spot, till he had testified,Though with an humble pittance, his generousFeelings; reaching the small receptacle,He dropped a penny in; 't was all he had;Though only one, it was given in allThe full and fervent purity of hisYoung heart; and his offering in the sightOf Heaven was as acceptable asIf 't were thousands. Anon there passed alongMy path, a poor and aged widow, whoHad come, as was her daily wont, to dropHer soul's pure tribute o'er her husband's grave.Tears are all the gems the poor possess, andShe was rich in their abundance; she tooApproached the box, and left the "widow's mite."Again the gate turned on its hinges, andThere entered one of proud and lofty mien,Whose garb methought bespoke a well filled purse.From those who had preceded him, I judgedThat he would leave a noble gift: but he Passed by unfeelingly, as did the LeviteThe poor wounded man upon the road-side.Musing upon the strange events of life,The different grades of feeling in th°Human breast, I turned and left the grave-yard,Wiser, and I trust better, than when IEntered.