Classic Poem

Want — want — want — want! O God! forgive the crime,
If I, asleep, awake, at any time,
Upon my bended knees, my back, my feet,
In church, on bed, on treasure-lighted street,
Have ever hinted , or, much less, have pleaded
That I hadn't ten times over all I needed!
Lord save my soul! I never knew the way
That people starve along from day to day;
May Gracious Heaven forgive me, o'er and o'er,
That I have never found these folks before!

Of course some news of it has come my way,
Like a faint echo on a drowsy day;
At home I " gave, " whene'er by suffering grieved,
And called it " Charity, " and felt relieved;
And thought that I was never undertasked,
If I bestowed when with due deference asked,
But no one finds the poorest poor, I doubt,
Unless he goes himself and hunts them out;
And when you get real suffering among,
Be thankful if your heart-strings are not wrung!

These thoughts sobbed through me this cold, snowy day,
As carefully I picked a dubious way
'Mongst nakedness and want on every side,
And a rough, masculine angel for my guide,
Who goes about among affliction's heirs,
And gives his life to piece out some of theirs.
Up — up — up — up! and yet, I am afraid,
Farther from Heaven at every step we made!
Gaunt, hungry creatures stood on every side
With cheeks drawn close and sad eyes opened wide.
Filled to the brim with greedy, starving prayers,
As we went past them up the creaking stairs.

And I peeped into rooms 'twas death to see
(Or, rather, they peeped darkly out at me) —
Such as I wouldn't have had the cheek to 've shown
To any swine I've ever chanced to own.
'Twas sad to see, in this great misery-cup
How guilt and innocence were all mixed up;
Here lay a fellow, stupid, dull, and dumb,
Whose breath was like a broken keg of rum;
And there a baby, looking scared and odd,
Who had not been a week away from God.
Here a clean woman, toiling for her bread;
And there a wretch whose filthy heart was dead.
Here a sound rascal, lazy, loud, and bold;
And there the helpless, weak and sick and old.

Want — want! O Lord! forgive me, o'er and o'er,
That I haven't found these suffering folks before!
We had a decent poor-house in our town,
And I would often drive my spare horse down,
And take a little stroll among them there.
And try to cheer their every-day despair,
And with their little wants and worries join,
And chink round 'mongst them with small bits of coin
(Done up in good advice, somewhat severe),
And send them Christmas turkeys every year;
Then, in my cosey home, think, with a grin,
What a fine, liberal angel I had been.
But here, O heavens! I find them, high and low,
Hundreds of pauper-houses in a row!
And suffering — suffering — in a shape, I vow,
That makes my poor old tears run even now!

For city trouble, any one will find,
Is more ingenious than the country kind,
And has a thousand cute-invented ways
To torture men and shorten off their days.
And while we wonder that God made it so,
He doesn't seem very anxious we should know;
But He is willing we should search His plan,
And pry around and find out all we can;
And I suspect when pains and troubles fall,
That every one is useful, after all.

At any rate, the miseries that I see
Are useful in their good effects on me;
And though that isn't a great thing, on the whole
(Though Heaven does put a premium on each soul),
Yet there are several people, I suspect,
Who need a little of that same effect;
And if they do not get it, old and young,
'Twill be because I've lost my poor old tongue.

One more small portion of God's plan I see
Concerning its effect on " even me " :
And that's its leading me, by methods queer,
To be some help to these poor people here.
For now I promise, from this very night,
And hereby put it down in black and white,
That out of every day that's given me yet,
And out of every dollar I can get,
And out of every talent, small or large,
That God sees fit to put into my charge,
A part shall be devoted — square and sure —
To God's own suffering, struggling, dying poor!