The Master came one evening to the gate Of a fair city; it was growing late, And sending his disciples to buy food, He wandered forth intent on doing good, As was his wont. And in the market-place He saw a crowd, close gathered in one space, Gazing with eager eyes upon the ground, Jesus drew nearer, and thereon he found A noisome creature, a bedraggled wreck-- A dead dog with a halter round his neck, And those who stood by mocked the object there, And one said, scoffing, "It pollutes the air!" Another, jeering, asked, "How long to-night Shall such a miscreant cur offend our sight?" "Look at his torn hide," sneered a Jewish wit, "You could not cut even a shoe from it," And turned away. "Behold his ears that bleed," A fourth chimed in, "an unclean wretch indeed!" "He hath been hanged for thieving," they all cried. And spurned the loathsome beast from side to side. Then Jesus, standing by them in the street, Looked on the poor, spent creature at his feet, And, bending o'er him, spake unto the men, "_Pearls are not whiter than his teeth._" And then The people at each other gazed, asking, "Who is this stranger pitying this vile thing?" Then one exclaimed, with awe-abated breath, "This surely is the Man of Nazareth; This must be Jesus, for none else but he Something to praise in a dead dog could see!" And, being ashamed, each scoffer bowed his head, And from the sight of Jesus turned and fled. Vice is a monster of so frightful mien As, to be hated, needs but to be seen; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace. --Alexander Pope. WHAT MIGHT BE DONE What might be done if men were wise-- What glorious deeds, my suffering brother, Would they unite In love and right, And cease their scorn of one another! Oppression's heart might be imbued With kindling drops of loving-kindness, And knowledge pour From shore to shore Light on the eyes of mental blindness. All slavery, warfare, lies, and wrongs, All vice and crime, might die together; And wine and corn To each man born Be free as warmth in summer weather. The meanest wretch that ever trod, The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow, Might stand erect In self-respect, And share the teeming world to-morrow. What might be done? This might be done. And more than this, my suffering brother; More than the tongue E'er said or sung If men were wise and loved each other. --Charles Mackay.