STREET WAIF.
I. From morn till noon, from noon till night, Pacing the sidewalk, always in sight, Who has not seen the mysterious wight? Is he man or ghost? Is he crazed or lost? Does he walk with the fiends or the spirits of light?
II. Answer, ye flagstones that echo his tread;— Answer, ye cold winds that buffet his head;— Tell us, ye clouds, that with pinions outspread Smite him with fire, And mock at his ire, Shuns he the living for love of the dead?
Through the long lapse of the changing year His crumbling garments unchanged appear, The old drab coat, and the thing so queer Stuck to his pate! All out of date, Tempting the urchins to point and jeer.— “Poor waif!”
III. Poor waif!—’tis the murmur of angels who grieve; ’Tis a voice from the clouds which my soul must receive. Tell me the secret whose whispers bereave His eyelids of joy; Preserve or destroy, Crush him in mercy, or grant a reprieve.
IV. Has he been guilty of some dark deed? Surely no crime in that brow could breed! So lofty, so mild in its terrible need? Has he betrayed An innocent maid? Or plundered the poor to surfeit his greed?
V. Has he, for sake of a crumb and a sip, With loyalty’s cry evermore on his lip, Counselled the use of a merciless whip When failure brought blame On the Patriot’s name, And tyrants their hot-sided beagles let slip?
VI. Has he been cruel to nearest of kin? The mother who loved him, and pleaded to win Her prodigal back from the desert of sin? Has he struck in base ire The cheek of his sire? Then plunge him in Acheron up to the chin.— “Poor waif!”