A widow is weeping in silence and gloom,
The pride of her heart late consigned to the tomb,
Cold Poverty reigns where was Plenty of late,
There's no bread in the cupboard, no fire in the grate;
The tear-drop is rolling fast down her pale cheek
As she looks on her children so hungry and weak.
The eldest too young to at all comprehend
(God help him!) the loss of his father and friend.
While the youngest of three is a baby asleep,
No wonder despair through her bosom should creep!
Dark thoughts gather round her, her brain is on fire,
As she looks on her offspring, and thinks of their sire,
Lo! the door softly opens, and Pity appears,
Chases Want far away, and dries gently her tears.
Health! chief of all blessings, returns to her cot;
And the widow resigned meekly bows to her lot.
There are deeds in this world to which angels give birth,
Which all may indulge in who live upon earth;
Aye! all—rich and poor, high and low—may take part,
If the angel of Pity but dwells in the heart.
_(page_100_fleuron).jpg)
