musings.
107
With a worn and weary spirit, with a sad and aching brow,
To the bitter ills of poverty how hardly does she bow!
Oh! cruel are the heartless ones, who could the poor oppress,
Nor ever seek to aid them, amid their deep distress.
To the bitter ills of poverty how hardly does she bow!
Oh! cruel are the heartless ones, who could the poor oppress,
Nor ever seek to aid them, amid their deep distress.
The rich, the gay, the happy, how swiftly do they glide
Adown the sunny stream of life, in plenteousness and pride;
They seldom think upon the poor, who toil from year to year,
With heavy grief upon their hearts, and none their tasks to cheer.
Adown the sunny stream of life, in plenteousness and pride;
They seldom think upon the poor, who toil from year to year,
With heavy grief upon their hearts, and none their tasks to cheer.
No bright dreams of the future, no sweet dreams of the past,
But a fund of bitter memories, their spirits overcast;
How languidly the needle is plied with bitter pain,—
Comes sickness, direst evil! amid the meager train.
But a fund of bitter memories, their spirits overcast;
How languidly the needle is plied with bitter pain,—
Comes sickness, direst evil! amid the meager train.
