Classic Poem

I CARE not for country, I care not for creed;
We're all sons of Adam, the best poor indeed.
I care not for station, I want but to know
If thy heart can with pity and love overflow?
With country and kindred I've nothing to do;
If thou hast a heart that is honest and true,
Then come to my bosom, whatever thy creed,
For thou art my friend and my brother indeed.

Oh, boast not to me that thou'rt above need,
But tell me, my friend, art thou far above greed?
Oh, talk not to me of thy pow'r and estate,
I'd ask thee, my friend, art thou far above fate?
How far art thou raised above sorrow and woe,
To look with contempt upon aught here below?
With vanity's prompting, oh, be not elate!
For death's pains and sorrows thou canst not abate.

Away with the bosom, tho' cover'd with gold,
If the heart that's within it be callous and cold;
Oh, show not your garments to me if they hide
But hearts all polluted with passion and pride.
And talk not to me of your delicate food
If ye love not the banquet prepared for the good.
If the great joy of sorrow thou never hast known,
Thou still art a slave, tho' possess'd of a throne.

Oh, give me the man that has triumph'd o'er self!
Who feels there are some things far, far above wealth;
Who chooses the truth, and will by it abide,
And deems it a treasure above aught beside;
Tho' in roughest homespun that mortal is dressed,
The heart of a man's beating under his vest;
Tho' poor and tho' humble may be his abode,
He bears the true stamp of the image of God.

Then let us believe that the time's coming round
When worth will be honor'd wherever 'tis found,
When men will be tested, no, not by their creeds,
Not the length of their purse, but the worth of their deeds!
The hand be exalted, tho' hard as the horn,
If the full cup of Mercy it ever hath borne;
And virtue and goodness, the measure of worth,
And Truth, Love and Mercy abide upon earth.