may be, that the tale you hear, Of pressing wants and losses borne Is heaped or colored for your ear, And tatters for the purpose worn ; But surely Poverty has not A sadder need than this, A mask still meaner than her lot, Compassion's scanty food to share.
It may be that you err, to give What will but tempt to further spoil Those who in low content would live On theft of others' time and toil: Yet sickness may have broke or bent The active frame or vigorous will; Or hard occasion may prevent Their exercise of humble skill.
It may be that the suppliant's life Has lain on many an evil way Of foul delight and brutal strife, And lawless deeds that shun the day; But how can any gauge of yours The depth of that temptation try? What man resists, what man endures, Is open to one only eye.
Why not believe the homely letter, That all you give will God restore? The poor man may deserve it better, And surely, surely, wants it more : Let but the rich man do his part, And, whatsoe'er the issue be
To those who ask, his answering heart Will gain and grow in sympathy.
Suppose that each from nature got Bare quittance of his labor's worth, That yearly-teeming flocks were not, Nor manifold-producing earth; No wilding growths of fruit and flower, Cultured to beautiful and good,
No creatures for the arm of power To take and tame from waste and wood!
That all men to their mortal rest Passed shadow-like, and left behind No free result, no clear bequest, Won by their work of hand or mind! That every separate life begun, A present to the past unbound, A lonely, independent one,
Sprung from the cold mechanic ground!
What would the record of the past, The vision of the future be? Nature unchanged from first to last, And base the best humanity: For in these gifts lies all the space Between our England's noblest men, And the most vile Australian race Outprowling from their bushy den.
Then freely, as from age to age Descending generations bear The accumulated heritage Of friendly and parental care, Freely as Nature tends her wealth Of air and fire, of sea and land, Of childhood's happiness and health,- So freely open you your hand!
THE PATIENCE OF THE POOR.
Between you and your best intent Necessity her brazen bar Will often interpose, as sent Your pure benevolence to mar : Still every gentle word has sway To teach the pauper's desperate mood, That misery shall not take away Franchise of human brotherhood.
And if this lesson comes too late, Woe to the rich and poor and all! The maddened outcast of the gate Plunders and murders in the hall : Justice can crush and hold in awe, While Hope in social order reigns ; But if the myriads break the law, They break it as a slave his chains !
THE PATIENCE OF THE POOR.-R. M. Milnes.
WHEN leisurely the man of ease His morning's daily course begins, And round him in bright circle sees The comforts Independence wins, He seems unto himself to hold An uncontested natural right In life a volume to unfold Of simple, ever-new delight.
And if, before the evening close, The hours their rainbow wings let fall, And sorrow shakes his bland repose, And too continuous pleasures pall,
THE PATIENCE OF THE POOR.
He murmurs, as if Nature broke Some promise plighted at his birth, In bending him beneath the yoke Borne by the common sons of earth.
They starve beside his plenteous board, They halt behind his easy wheels, But sympathy in vain affords The sense of ills he never feels. He knows he is the same as they, A feeble, piteous, mortal thing, And still expects that every day Increase and change of bliss should bring.
Therefore, when he is called to know The deep realities of pain,
He shrinks as from a viewless blow, He writhes as in a magic chain : Untaught that trial, toil, and care Are the great charter of his kind, It seems disgrace for him to share Weakness of flesh and human mind.
Not so the People's honest child, The field-flower of the open sky, Ready to live while winds are wild, Nor, when they soften, loth to die : To him there never came the thought That this, his life, was meant to be A pleasure-house, where peace, unbought Should minister to pride or glee.
You oft may hear him murmur loud Against the uneven lots of Fate, You oft may see him inly bowed Beneath affliction's weight on weight;-
THE PATIENCE OF THE POUR.
But rarely turns he on his grief A face of petulant surprise, Or scorns whate'er benign relief The hand of God or man supplies.
Behold him on his rustic bed, The unluxurious couch of need, Striving to raise his aching head And sinking powerless as a reed : So sick in both, he hardly knows Which is his heart's or body's sore; For, the more keen his anguish grows, His wife and children pine the more.
No search for him of dainty food, But coarsest sustenance of life,- No rest by artful quiet wooed,
But household cries and wants and strife Affection can at best employ
Her utmost of unhandy care,
Her prayers and tears are weak to buy
The costly drug, the purer air.
Pity herself, at such a sight, Might lose her gentleness of mien, And clothe her form in angry might, And as a wild despair be seen, Did she not hail the lesson taught By this unconscious suffering boor To the high sons of lore and thought,- The sacred Patience of the Poor.
This great endurance of each ill, As a plain fact, whose right or wrong They question not, confiding still That it shall last not overlong;
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