 | Forest leaves |  |
171
CHARITY.
How meekly beautiful she walks
Along the embattled line of life,
Regardless of the pomp and power,
That mingles in the strife.
The glittering toys, that strew the way,
Have no attraction in her eyes;
How dim they seem, beside the pearl
That in her bosom lies.
Along the embattled line of life,
Regardless of the pomp and power,
That mingles in the strife.
The glittering toys, that strew the way,
Have no attraction in her eyes;
How dim they seem, beside the pearl
That in her bosom lies.
She bears no sword amid the fray,
She seeks no laurel, no renown;
What should she do with earthly bay,
Who heirs a heavenly crown.
She seeks not—heeds not—man's applause,
She knows 'tis but a passing wind;
And his revilings, scoffs, and taunts,
Fall harmless on her mind.
She seeks no laurel, no renown;
What should she do with earthly bay,
Who heirs a heavenly crown.
She seeks not—heeds not—man's applause,
She knows 'tis but a passing wind;
And his revilings, scoffs, and taunts,
Fall harmless on her mind.
Careless of these, she passes on,
With searching eye and heeding ear,
With heart that thrills at every moan,
And pities every tear.
'Tis hers to raise the prostrate form,
To stanch the wound with tender art;
To lay soft leaves of Gilead's balm
Upon the bleeding heart.
With searching eye and heeding ear,
With heart that thrills at every moan,
And pities every tear.
'Tis hers to raise the prostrate form,
To stanch the wound with tender art;
To lay soft leaves of Gilead's balm
Upon the bleeding heart.
172
To turn the lifted blade away,
And shield the trembler from the blow;
To lead the weary on their way,
And sooth the wanderer's wo.
To aid the bending form of age,
And cheer its path of pain and gloom;
Pointing the dim eye to the day,
That sets not in the tomb.
And shield the trembler from the blow;
To lead the weary on their way,
And sooth the wanderer's wo.
To aid the bending form of age,
And cheer its path of pain and gloom;
Pointing the dim eye to the day,
That sets not in the tomb.
And see, close-folded to her breast,
The outcast little orphan's form;
She gives it clothing, food, and rest,
And shelter from the storm.
Her eyes, and heart, are heavenward still,
Her hands are to the needy given,
To bind each wound, to sooth each ill,
And lead the weak toward heaven.
The outcast little orphan's form;
She gives it clothing, food, and rest,
And shelter from the storm.
Her eyes, and heart, are heavenward still,
Her hands are to the needy given,
To bind each wound, to sooth each ill,
And lead the weak toward heaven.
What though her eyes are sometimes wet,
When venom'd arrows pierce her breast;
And blood drips from her weary feet,
That know no earthly rest.
Still, He, whose footsteps she pursues,
Heals all her wounds with holy love,
And dries her tears, with dazzling views
Of her own Home—above.
When venom'd arrows pierce her breast;
And blood drips from her weary feet,
That know no earthly rest.
Still, He, whose footsteps she pursues,
Heals all her wounds with holy love,
And dries her tears, with dazzling views
Of her own Home—above.
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