For, crouching in the storm without, I see the figure of a child, In little ragged roundabout, Who stares with eyes that never smiled-- And he, in fancy can but taste The dainties of the kingly fare, And pick the crumbs that go to waste Where none have learned to kneel in prayer. Go, Pride, and throw your goblet down-- The "merry greeting" best appears On loving lips that never drown Its worth but in the wine of tears; Go, close your coffers like your hearts, And shut your hearts against the poor, Go, strut through all your pretty parts But take the "Welcome" from your door. LUTHER BENSON AFTER READING HIS AUTOBIOGRAPHY POOR victim of that vulture curse That hovers o'er the universe, With ready talons quick to strike In every human heart alike, And cruel beak to stab and tear In virtue's vitals everywhere,-- You need no sympathy of mine To aid you, for a strength divine Encircles you, and lifts you clear Above this earthly atmosphere. And yet I can but call you poor, As, looking through the open door Of your sad life, I only see A broad landscape of misery, And catch through mists of pitying tears The ruins of your younger years, I see a father's shielding arm Thrown round you in a wild alarm-- Struck down, and powerless to free Or aid you in your agony. I see a happy home grow dark And desolate--the latest spark Of hope is passing in eclipse-- The prayer upon a mother's lips Has fallen with her latest breath In ashes on the lips of death-- I see a penitent who reels, And writhes, and clasps his hands, and kneels, And moans for mercy for the sake Of that fond heart he dared to break. And lo! as when in Galilee A voice above the troubled sea Commanded "Peace; be still!" the flood That rolled in tempest-waves of blood Within you, fell in calm so sweet It ripples round the Saviour's feet; And all your noble nature thrilled With brightest hope and faith, and filled Your thirsty soul with joy and peace And praise to Him who gave release. "DREAM" Because her eyes were far too deep And holy for a laugh to leap Across the brink where sorrow tried To drown within the amber tide; Because the looks, whose ripples kissed The trembling lids through tender mist, Were dazzled with a radiant gleam-- Because of this I called her "Dream." Because the roses growing wild About her features when she smiled Were ever dewed with tears that fell With tenderness ineffable; Because her lips might spill a kiss That, dripping in a world like this, Would tincture death's myrrh-bitter stream To sweetness--so I called her "Dream." Because I could not understand The magic touches of a hand That seemed, beneath her strange control, To smooth the plumage of the soul And calm it, till, with folded wings, It half forgot its flutterings, And, nestled in her palm, did seem To trill a song that called her "Dream."