Poems (Truesdell)/The Contrast
For works with similar titles, see The Contrast.
THE CONTRAST.
"Oh, listen in mercy, ye sons of wealth,
Basking in comfort, and glowing with health!
Give whate'er ye can spare, and be ye sure,
He serveth his Master who aideth the poor."
Eliza Cook.
Basking in comfort, and glowing with health!
Give whate'er ye can spare, and be ye sure,
He serveth his Master who aideth the poor."
Eliza Cook.
The night was cold, and drear, and shrill
The winds blew loud o'er heath and hill;
The darkening clouds were gathering fast,
And strong trees bowed 'neath the sullen blast;
While a few pale stars with faint ray shone
O'er a lowly cot and a stately home.
The winds blew loud o'er heath and hill;
The darkening clouds were gathering fast,
And strong trees bowed 'neath the sullen blast;
While a few pale stars with faint ray shone
O'er a lowly cot and a stately home.
That stately home was a palace fair,
And comfort and light and warmth were there,
And young feet danced with footsteps light,
And fair forms shone in the clear lamp-light;
No fears for them had the storm without—
They answered it oft with a merry shout.
And comfort and light and warmth were there,
And young feet danced with footsteps light,
And fair forms shone in the clear lamp-light;
No fears for them had the storm without—
They answered it oft with a merry shout.
But a different place was the humble shed
Where the widow toiled for her daily bread:
Lonely she sat by her scant fireside,
And with weary fingers her needle plied;
While the feathery snow came drifting through,
And the winds more loudly and wildly blew.
Where the widow toiled for her daily bread:
Lonely she sat by her scant fireside,
And with weary fingers her needle plied;
While the feathery snow came drifting through,
And the winds more loudly and wildly blew.
With quiet step to the cradle she crept,
Where her youngest, fairest darling slept,
And o'er it bent with a look of love,
Like a parent bird o'er a nestled dove,
"Sleep, dearest, sleep," she murmured low,
In the broken tones of grief and woe:
Where her youngest, fairest darling slept,
And o'er it bent with a look of love,
Like a parent bird o'er a nestled dove,
"Sleep, dearest, sleep," she murmured low,
In the broken tones of grief and woe:
"In yon castle proud there are feastings fair,
For the birth-night's come of their noble heir,
And he proudly stands in his manhood's age,
And claims broad lands for his heritage.
I, too, had a son,—but he's gone from me,
They have made his grave 'neath the churchyard tree.
For the birth-night's come of their noble heir,
And he proudly stands in his manhood's age,
And claims broad lands for his heritage.
I, too, had a son,—but he's gone from me,
They have made his grave 'neath the churchyard tree.
Oh! little ye think, ye rich and great,
As ye proudly revel in halls of state,
Of the lone and poor, who pine and die
'Neath the chilling blasts of a winter sky!
When a few kind words, and a little part
Of your gold, might save a broken heart.
As ye proudly revel in halls of state,
Of the lone and poor, who pine and die
'Neath the chilling blasts of a winter sky!
When a few kind words, and a little part
Of your gold, might save a broken heart.