The Mission of Kindness
Go to the sick man’s chamber; low and soft
Falls on the listening ear a sweet-toned voice;
A hand as gentle as the summer breeze,
Ever inclined to offices of good,
Smooths o’er the sick man’s pillow, and then turns
To trim the midnight lamp, moisten the lips,
And, passing over, soothe the fevered brow.
Thus charity finds place in woman’s heart;
And woman kind, and beautiful, and good,
Doth thus administer to every want,
Nor wearies in her task, but labors on,
And finds her joy in that which she imparts.
Go to the prisoner’s cell; to-morrow’s light
Shall be the last on earth he e’er shall see.
He mutters hate ’gainst all, and threatens ill
To every semblance of the human form.
Deep in his soul remorse, despair and hate,
Dwell unillumined by one ray of light,
And sway his spirit as the waves are swayed
By wind and storm. He may have cause to hold
His fellow-men as foes; for, at the first
Of his departure from an upright course,
They scorned and shunned and cursed him.
They sinn‚d thus, and he, in spite for them,
Kept on his sullen way from wrong to wrong.
Which is the greatest sinner? He shall say
Who of the hearts of men alone is judge.
Now, in his cell condemned, he waits the hour,
The last sad hour of mortal life to him.
His oaths and blasphemies he sudden stays!
He thinks he hears upon his prison door
A gentle tap. O, to his hardened heart
That gentle sound a sweet remembrance brings
Of better days-two-score of years gone by,
Days when his mother, rapping softly thus,
Called him to morning prayer. Again ’t is heard.
Is it a dream? Asleep! He cannot sleep
With chains around and shameful death before him!
Is it the false allurement of some foe
Who would with such enticement draw him forth
To meet destruction ere the appointed time?
Softened and calmed, each angry passion lulled,
By a soft voice, “Come in,” he trembling calls.
Slow on its hinges turns the ponderous door,
And “Friend,” the word that falls from stranger lips.
As dew on flowers, as rain on parch‚d ground,
So came the word unto the prisoner’s ear.
He speaks not-moves not. O, his heart is full,
Too full for utterance; and, as floods of tears
Flow from his eyes so all unused to weep,
He bows down low, e’en at the stranger’s feet.
He had not known what ’t was to have a friend.
The word came to him like a voice from heaven,
A voice of love to one who’d heard but hate.
“Friend!” Mysterious word to him who’d known no friend.
O, what a power that simple word hath o’er him!
As now he holds the stranger’s hand in his,
And bows his head upon it, he doth seem
Gentle and kind, and docile as a child.
Repentance comes with kindness, goodness rears
Its cross on Calvary’s height, inspiring hope
Which triumphs over evil and its guilt.
O, how much changed! and all by simple words
Spoken in love and kindness from the heart.
O, love and kindness! matchless power have ye
To mould the human heart; where’er ye dwell
There is no sorrow, but a living joy.
There is no man whom God hath placed on earth
That hath not some humanity within,
And is not moved with kindness joined with love.
The wildest savage, from whose firelit eye
Flashes the lightning passions of his soul,
Who stands, and feeling that he hath been wronged,
That he hath trusted and been basely used,
And that to him revenge were doubly sweet,
Dares all the world to combat and to death,—
Even he hath dwelling in his inmost heart
A chord that quick will vibrate to kind words.
Go unto such with kindness, not with wrath;
Let your eye look love, and ’t will disarm him
Of all the evil passions with which he
Hath mailed his soul in terrible array.
Think not to tame the wild by brutal force.
As well attempt to stay devouring flames
By heaping fagots on the blazing pile.
Go, do man good, and the deep-hidden spark
Of true divinity concealed within
Will brighten up, and thou shalt see its glow,
And feel its cheering warmth. O, we lose much
By calling passion’s aid to vanquish wrong.
We should stand within love’s holy temple,
And with persuasive kindness call men in,
Rather than, leaving it, use other means,
Unblest of God, and therefore weak and vain,
To force them on before us into bliss.
There is a luxury in doing good
Which none but by experience e’er can know.
He’s blest who doeth good. Sleep comes to him
On wings of sweetest peace; and angels meet
In joyous convoys ever round his couch;
They watch and guard, protect and pray for him.
All mothers bend the knee, and children too
Clasp their fair hands and raise their undimmed eyes,
As if to pierce the shadowy veil that hangs
Between themselves and God-then pray that he
Will bless with Heaven’s best gifts the friend of man.