BE COMPASSIONATE.

The wind blows cold—yon poor, old man

Seeks pity for his woe,

For naught hath he to bear him on,

Though a long, long way to go,

All houseless, homeless, weak and tired,

While friends are far away,

His clothes are tattered—locks are white—

Oh! pity him, I pray.

His wife is dead—his children gone,

He knoweth not where but far;

The sun’s bright light he seeth not,

Nor light of moon nor star.

For God hath taken sight away,

Hath bent him as you see;

And made his limbs as thin and weak

As those of a withered tree.

A very little from your wealth,

Some coppers more or few’r—

Will get him a morsel of bread to eat,

And cannot make you poor.

Give alms! the memory will be

A balm unto thy heart,

A spring to thy limbs—a sight to thine eye—

And joy to ne’er depart.

Oh! curl not thy proud lip, nor turn

Thy form away in pride;

As he is, you may be e’er long,

When woes of life betide.

Then as a wearied, blasted man,

From door to door you go—

You’ll think with tears of when you scorned

The humble blind man’s woe.