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 intruded
On the silence; the leaves hung motionless,
While nature's gentle warblers sought repose.
A soft and lovely pensiveness stole o'er
The earth's bright surface; while a drowsiness
Had 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 devotion
On the page of nature.
I had wandered far,
And sought the village church-yard to indulge
In sober thought, amid the moss-grown carved
Memorials 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 touched
This venerable monument of days
Long past, whose fallen state, proclaimed in
Language mute but eloquent, that a
Separation must, ere long, ensue.
Beside that Church's porch,
A little box was placed, strongly appealing
To the hearts of all who passed that way,—
For Charity; which none could help perceive,
Save those who wilfully were blind; and it
Was deemed a stain upon the hearts of those
Who passed it by unnoticed.
I had marked
A bright-eyed boy, who though alone, had pleased
Himself in gathering wild flowers, that bloomed in
Rich luxuriance o'er that hallowed place;
And now he turned to go, but paused as he
Approached that sacred edifice where oft
He entered: his hand was thrust within his
Pocket, seeking an offering for the
Box that stood before him: he seemed ashamed
To leave the spot, till he had testified,
Though with an humble pittance, his generous
Feelings; reaching the small receptacle,
He dropped a penny in; 't was all he had;
Though only one, it was given in all
The full and fervent purity of his
Young heart; and his offering in the sight
Of Heaven was as acceptable as
If 't were thousands.
Anon there passed along
My path, a poor and aged widow, who
Had come, as was her daily wont, to drop
Her soul's pure tribute o'er her husband's grave.
Tears are all the gems the poor possess, and
She was rich in their abundance; she too
Approached the box, and left the "widow's mite."
Again the gate turned on its hinges, and
There entered one of proud and lofty mien,
Whose garb methought bespoke a well filled purse.
From those who had preceded him, I judged
That he would leave a noble gift: but he
Passed by unfeelingly, as did the Levite
The 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 I
Entered.
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 intruded
On the silence; the leaves hung motionless,
While nature's gentle warblers sought repose.
A soft and lovely pensiveness stole o'er
The earth's bright surface; while a drowsiness
Had 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 devotion
On the page of nature.
I had wandered far,
And sought the village church-yard to indulge
In sober thought, amid the moss-grown carved
Memorials 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 touched
This venerable monument of days
Long past, whose fallen state, proclaimed in
Language mute but eloquent, that a
Separation must, ere long, ensue.
Beside that Church's porch,
A little box was placed, strongly appealing
To the hearts of all who passed that way,—
For Charity; which none could help perceive,
Save those who wilfully were blind; and it
Was deemed a stain upon the hearts of those
Who passed it by unnoticed.
I had marked
A bright-eyed boy, who though alone, had pleased
Himself in gathering wild flowers, that bloomed in
Rich luxuriance o'er that hallowed place;
And now he turned to go, but paused as he
Approached that sacred edifice where oft
He entered: his hand was thrust within his
Pocket, seeking an offering for the
Box that stood before him: he seemed ashamed
To leave the spot, till he had testified,
Though with an humble pittance, his generous
Feelings; reaching the small receptacle,
He dropped a penny in; 't was all he had;
Though only one, it was given in all
The full and fervent purity of his
Young heart; and his offering in the sight
Of Heaven was as acceptable as
If 't were thousands.
Anon there passed along
My path, a poor and aged widow, who
Had come, as was her daily wont, to drop
Her soul's pure tribute o'er her husband's grave.
Tears are all the gems the poor possess, and
She was rich in their abundance; she too
Approached the box, and left the "widow's mite."
Again the gate turned on its hinges, and
There entered one of proud and lofty mien,
Whose garb methought bespoke a well filled purse.
From those who had preceded him, I judged
That he would leave a noble gift: but he
Passed by unfeelingly, as did the Levite
The 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 I
Entered.