Poems (Sherwin)/The poor italian boy

by Elizabeth Sherwin

THE POOR ITALIAN BOY.

He stands before me, a poor houseless child;
The weak, the unprotected and the lost,
With such a meaning, gentle, quiet look,
Enough to move the most unfeeling heart.

 Without a friend—without a home—he leaves
His native soil, and seeks on England's shores
A scanty livelihood; unshared his joys,—
Unwept his sorrows! Lonely he wanders.

 Each morn when daylight softly breaks and steals
Upon his opening eyes—tear-fraught, yet bright,
He leaves his pallet sorrowing,—sad his heart;
For sad the heart must ever be that pines
In solitude. He knows not where to gain
One bit of bread to satisfy the call
Of pinching hunger. Still, there he stands,
And with a melancholy smile sets forth
Three little shivering mice. Though not a word
Breaks from his trembling lips, he seems to say,
With truly pitying look,—"Ah, me! Lost being!"
"Where shall I turn my steps? Which way proceed?
"Alas! it matters not. The whole wide world
"A barren wilderness alone appears,
"Intricate, wild, and overspread with thorns.
"No mother ever watched my youthful steps,
"No father ever blessed me with his gentle care,
"Since infancy's unconscious happy years:
 I lost them e'er I learned to know their value.
 But soon their loss proclaimed it to my heart,
 When every other friend abandoned me,
 And I was cast upon the world, as now,—
 A poor, forlorn, unknown, forsaken boy!"