 | Poems (1885) |  |
236
THE ALTAR OF PITY.
In the mid-city—to no mighty GodDedicate—rose an altar. Pity built
Her gentle seat there, and the miserable
Made all its consecration: never lacked
That Altar suppliants! none are turned away!
Whoso doth ask is heard; for day and night
The shrine stands open, and the offering
Of woful wail is free. A frugal faith!
No spice-fed flames burn there! no costly blood
Is shed: with tears—salt tears—the marble reeks.
No image soars above, no bronze hath ta'en
Stamp of the Deity! She loves to dwell
237
And ever hath she trembling worshippers:
And ever is the spot thick with a throng
Sad-faced; the happy only know it not!
| Poems (1885) | |