Give, and Stay Their Misery
WOULD ye who live in palace halls,
With servants round to wait,
Know aught of him who, craving, falls
Before thine outer gate?
Come with me when the piercing blast
Is whistling wild and free,
When muffled forms are hurrying past,
And then his portion see.
Come with me through the narrow lanes
To dwellings dark and damp,
Where poor men strive to ease their pains;
Where, by a feeble lamp,
The wearied, widowed mother long
Doth busy needle ply,
Whilst at her feet her children throng,
And for a morsel cry.
Come with me thou in such an hour,
To such a place, and see
That He who gave thee wealth gave power
To stay such misery!
Come with me,—nor with empty hand
Ope thou the poor man’s door;
Come with the produce of thy land,
And thou shalt gather more.