"Never saw I the righteous forsaken,"
Once sang the good Psalmist of old;
"Nor his seed for a crust humbly begging."
How oft has the story been told!
But the story would ne'er have been written,
Had the writer but lived in our day,
When thousands with hunger are smitten--
No matter how plead they or pray.
They may say there's a lining of silver
To the darkest--the dreariest cloud:
That garniture, white fringe, and flowers,
Grace the black pall, the coffin, and shroud.
But the lining at best is but vapour;
Silk and lacquer to nothingness fade
After hearts in their sorrow have broken
O'er the wrecks which Adversity made.
They may say that the box of Pandora
Holds reward in the bottom at last
For those who strive on in the searching.
And forget the fierce blows of the Past.
But late comes the voice of approval,
And worthless the cup and the crust,
When, in striving, by Death overtaken,
We lie lone and low in the dust.
They may say that right-living and thinking
Will keep the grim wolf from the door;
But how many Saints are there sinking
Whose crime is to live and be poor!
Let the knave promulgate the deception,
And dress the world's wounds with such salve;
It is false--while rank Villainy prospers,
And Virtue 's permitted to starve.
They may say--but mankind is a fiction
That puzzles the wisest to read;
And life is a vast contradiction--
A fable--a folly indeed.
He happy in heart is who careth
No jot for mankind or its ways,
To defy the world's frown he who dareth,
Unconscious of blame or of praise.