But the burnt breasts of the torrid zone yield never kindly nourishment.
Wouldst thou be poor, scatter to the rich,—and reap the tares of ingratitude;
Wouldst thou be rich, give unto the poor; thou shalt have thine own with usury:
For the secret hand of Providence prospereth the charitable all ways,
Good luck shall he have in his pursuits, and his heart shall be glad within him;
Yet perchance he never shall perceive, that, even as to earthly gains,
The cause of his weal as of his joy, hath been small givings to the poor.
In the plain of Benares is there found a root that fathereth a forest,
Where round the parent banian-tree drop its living scions;
Thirstily they strain to the earth, like stalactites in a grotto,