Classic Poem

A cry goes up amidst a prosperous nation,
And Hunger begs within a plenteous land!
Have ye not heard the voice of Desolation?
Have ye not seen the stretched and famished hand?
Have ye not felt the solemn obligation
To rise, and straightway answer the demand?

O happy mothers, in your homes protected,
Whose little ones may never ask for alms,
That voice is Childhood's! starving and neglected,
Pale Infancy implores with empty palms,—
The sad soul sitting in its eyes dejected,
No voice elates, no smile of pity calms.

Let those dear looks, so full of April splendour,
Those dimpled hands you clasp within your own,
That voice you love so, plead with accents tender,
For those who weep unguarded and alone,
For those dull eyes, those hands so weak and slender,
Those pallid lips, whose mirth is but a moan!

Sweet plants there are which bloom in sultry places,
By rude feet trampled in their early hour,
Which, when transplanted, are so full of graces,
They lend a charm to Flora's fairest bower;
O ye who pass, look down into their faces,
Displace the dust, and recognise the flower!

Lo, the example for our guidance given,—
In sacred light our duty stands revealed!
For One there was, who, in His great love, even
Noted the smallest lilies of the field,—
And blessing children, said, “Of such is heaven!”
His “suffer them to come,” stands unrepealed!

O ye whose hearts, amid the worldly noises,
No cares can harden, and no self benumb,
Whose ears are open to these orphan voices,
Whose answering soul no avarice makes dumb,
The great Recorder o'er your names rejoices,
For ye have truly suffered them to come!