ALTHOUGH simply drawn, the picture is true, Pause for a moment and listen, my friend; Just as it was I will sketch it for you, In charity's name your sympathy lend. Walking alone on a mission to-day, I met on the park, by a wealthy man's door, A boy—O his accents I cannot portray— Scarce seven years old, and wretchedly poor.
"They've taken my bread;" this answer he gave When the question was put, "Pray, why do you cry?" "This is my basket, and all I could save; They snatched it and ran; now for more would I try, But, lady, 'tis late, the lamplighter 's round, Now lighting the streets already, you see; I have a long walk on cold, frozen ground, And mother and sister are waiting for me.
"I begged just enough for their supper, I thought, And was running along at the top of my speed, When three naughty boys, a piece they each caught From my basket, while I was in hunger and need. My father was killed in the war long ago, And mother is sick, and my sister is young. They could rob me because they are larger, you know; On my feet, bare and cold, these stones they have—flung."
May God in His infinite mercy look down On abodes such as his, this poor wandering one, And send them relief to lighten the frown Of penury's chill, when stern winter 's begun; May all noble hearts who have plenty to spare,— Be touched with compassion, who well can afford To carry them bread, and clothing to wear; By doing such deeds they lend to the Lord.
