"But mother, sir, is very sick,
She cannot work, I'm sure;
Father died some months ago,
And left us very poor.
"She has not tasted food for days.
And die I fear she must.
Unless you'll help us, Christian sir;
Do spare a little crust!"
"I'll spare you nothing, saucy imp!
Away this moment! run!
And tell your sickly mother
I cannot thus be done!"
He left the shop, and in the street
He sat him down to cry,
He heard the trampling of the feet
Of those who passed him by.
He could not ask another,
For his every hope had fled,—
('Tis sad that in a land like this
A child needs beg for bread.)
Wet, cold, and faint, he reached his home,
No richer than before,
And noiselessly he entered in,
And gently closed the door.
There is no sound, the mother sleeps—
Then groping for the bed,
He bent his weak and stiffened knees,
And bowed his weary head,
And pray'd "that God would grant them help,
And bring them safely through."
The whisper'd prayer was borne above,
Was heard, and answered too:
And when the morning's sun looked in,
And filled the place with light,
Two lifeless bodies on the straw
Was all that met the sight.
Thus were they found, alone, and dead,
No reason left to show
How they had come to that sad end;
And no one cared to know.