And the lights streamed out the windows,
Streamed out like shining spears—
Sparkled gaily and scintillated
From the gleaming chandeliers—
Out on the desolate tents of night,
All tempest-tossed and wild;
Out on the glistening frost and snow,
Where drift on drift was piled.
Oh, proud worshippers there assembled,
Sumptuously clad and warm,
Do you think of the homeless wanderers
Out in the pitiless storm?
Do you extend them a helping hand?
Have you sheltered, clothed and fed,
And cheered by sympathy’s magic
The soul that was almost dead?
Do you think of the hopeless poor?
Their dwellings are chill and bare;
They are comfortless and all forlorn,
With little to eat or wear.
Do you visit them in their sorrow?
Do you help them from your store?
For Providence has ever blest you
With enough, to spare, and more.
Do you help the struggling widow
In the fight for daily bread?
Do you succour the orphan children,
Scantily clothed and fed?
Do you visit the sick and needy,
And soothe their heartache and pain?
For encouraging words and kindness
May lift them up strong again.
The tall spire pointeth to heaven;
The worshippers pass within,
Heeding, perhaps, but slightly
The want, the despair, and sin
Of the great world’s unfortunate poor,
Helpless and hopeless and worn;
Tempted, fallen, and tired of life,
Its bitter neglect and scorn.
I turned away from the portal
Thinking what might have been
Had you kept the example set you
By the lowly Nazarene.
The eyes of the world are upon you,
And faith in your precepts is flown,
And because of example and teaching
Many have sceptical grown.
AT MIDNIGHT.
I stood tearless and lone at midnight
Near a grave by destiny made;
Deep in a vale by a lonely stream,
Where the branches drooped and swayed
In the soft night wind that breathed a sigh
To the flowers in the sheen
Of the pale moon, and the world at rest
Seemed fair as an angel’s dream.
But sorrow enwrapt me at midnight
Beside my beautiful dead,
And I buried it deep for evermore,
And hope with its white wings fled.
And I wept alone at the midnight
A passion of burning tears—
I knew, the way would be rough and long
Through all the untried years.