Poems (Lewis)/The Orphan's Prayer

by Matthew Gregory Lewis

THE ORPHAN'S PRAYER.

 

The frozen streets in moonshine glitter,
The midnight hour has long been past!
Oh! God! the wind blows keen and bitter,
I sink beneath the piercing blast.
In every vein life seems to languish,
Their weight my limbs no more can bear:
But no one soothes the Orphan's anguish,
And no one heeds the Orphan's prayer.

Hark! Hark! for surely footsteps near me
Advancing press the drifted snow.
I die for food!—Oh! Stranger, hear me,
I die for food!—Some alms bestow!
You see no guilty wretch implore you,
No Wanton pleads in feigned despair;
A famished Orphan kneels before you,
Oh! grant the famished Orphan's prayer!

Perhaps you think, my lips dissembling
Of virtuous sorrows feign a tale?
Mark then my frame with anguish trembling,
My hollow eyes, and features pale.
E'en should my story not be real,
Too well these wasted limbs declare,
My wants at least are not ideal;
Then, Stranger, grant the Orphan's prayer.

He's gone!—No mercy Man will show me;
In prayers no more I'll waste my breath:
Here on the frozen earth I'll throw me,
And wait in mute despair for death.
Farewell, thou cruel world!—To-morrow
No more thy scorn my heart shall tear;
The grave will shield the child of sorrow,
And Heaven will hear the Orphan's prayer

But Thou, proud Man, the Beggar scorning,
Unmoved who saw'st me kneel for bread,
Thy heart shall ache to hear at morning,
That morning found the Beggar dead:
And when the room resounds with laughter,
My famished cry thy mirth shall scare,
And often shalt Thou wish hereafter,
Thou hadst not scorned the Orphan's prayer.