 | Rhymes with reason and without |  |
269
CHARITY AT HOME.
The door-bell rings with a terrible clatter,
And, wondering what can be the matter,
I rush to the door, with my face all soap,
Lathered and moist for the morning shave,
Widely in haste the portal I ope,—
'T is a charity boy who alms doth crave.
I give him a dime and send him away,
'T were better than standing in chilly air;
And what so soothing to conscience, say,
As the grateful tone of the beggar-boy's prayer?
And, wondering what can be the matter,
I rush to the door, with my face all soap,
Lathered and moist for the morning shave,
Widely in haste the portal I ope,—
'T is a charity boy who alms doth crave.
I give him a dime and send him away,
'T were better than standing in chilly air;
And what so soothing to conscience, say,
As the grateful tone of the beggar-boy's prayer?
The door-bell rings,—is company here?
Step and see, my Margaret, dear.
More charity, say?
Who is it, pray?
Why and how are they coming this way?
A paper is thrust in my open hand,
That I the matter may understand:
How Peter Von Swivel,
With a face like the d---,
Has been beset all his life with evil;
How the burning mountain,
Hot and heavy,
Poured on the plain
Its molten lava;
How escape seemed vain, and, no clothes to his back,
He left all behind him, alas, and alack!
And when safe escaped from fire and wrack,
The idea crossed his mind, in a crack,
That for freedom's fair land he 'd make his track!
Then he tells me in German, Italian or Greek,
That a word of English he never could speak,
That to work he 's not able because he 's so weak,
That the red is hectic I see on his cheek,
That seven young Swivels he has here at hand,
Whom he will produce, at my command!—
I give him,—'t were best, without a doubt,
Or he'll beat me, some night, if he catch me out.
Step and see, my Margaret, dear.
More charity, say?
Who is it, pray?
Why and how are they coming this way?
A paper is thrust in my open hand,
That I the matter may understand:
How Peter Von Swivel,
With a face like the d---,
Has been beset all his life with evil;
How the burning mountain,
Hot and heavy,
Poured on the plain
Its molten lava;
270
He left all behind him, alas, and alack!
And when safe escaped from fire and wrack,
The idea crossed his mind, in a crack,
That for freedom's fair land he 'd make his track!
Then he tells me in German, Italian or Greek,
That a word of English he never could speak,
That to work he 's not able because he 's so weak,
That the red is hectic I see on his cheek,
That seven young Swivels he has here at hand,
Whom he will produce, at my command!—
I give him,—'t were best, without a doubt,
Or he'll beat me, some night, if he catch me out.
The door-bell rings,—what is it now?
My patience is gone!—'T is a woman, I vow!
My patience is gone!—'T is a woman, I vow!
“Charity, sir, in mercy,” she cries;
“Give me food that my child may live;
Here on my breast the dear one dies,—
Give me some food, in mercy, give!
“Give me food that my child may live;
Here on my breast the dear one dies,—
Give me some food, in mercy, give!
“‘Give us this day our daily bread,’
Kneeling, I asked of God in fear;
Then I wandered forth from my squalid shed,
And heaven has turned my footsteps here.
Kneeling, I asked of God in fear;
Then I wandered forth from my squalid shed,
And heaven has turned my footsteps here.
“My husband's life was worn away,
Toiling and adding to others' wealth,
For which but our living from day to day,
With ruined peace and broken health.
Toiling and adding to others' wealth,
For which but our living from day to day,
With ruined peace and broken health.
271
“Sickness came on him; he felt its blight,
Sorrowing laid he his head to die,
For us was his prayer through day and night,
For us was his last and dying sigh.
Sorrowing laid he his head to die,
For us was his prayer through day and night,
For us was his last and dying sigh.
“Now begging we rove, my babe and I,
And bless us, pray, in our heavy lot;
There is not a gift God passeth by,
There is no good remembered not.”
And bless us, pray, in our heavy lot;
There is not a gift God passeth by,
There is no good remembered not.”
I saw, that night, the boy's pale face
Smile on me with angelic grace;
I saw the poor woman kneeling there,
'T was for me she knelt, and for me her prayer;
And old Von Swivel
Bore a look more civil,
And did n't seem half as much like the d---.
Then I vowed to myself I must always believe
'T is a better thing to give than receive.
Smile on me with angelic grace;
I saw the poor woman kneeling there,
'T was for me she knelt, and for me her prayer;
And old Von Swivel
Bore a look more civil,
And did n't seem half as much like the d---.
Then I vowed to myself I must always believe
'T is a better thing to give than receive.
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