A child in form, a child in years;
But from her piteous pallid face,
The weariness of life with tears
Had washed all childlike grace.
And as she passed me faint and weak,
I heard her slowly say, as though
With throbbing heart about to break:
'"Move on!" Where shall I go?'
The other, who on furs reclined,
In brougham was driven to the play;
No thought within her vacant mind
Of those in rags that day:
With unmoved heart and idle stare,
Passed by the beggar in the street,
Who lifted up her hands in prayer
Some charity to meet.
Both vanished in the murky night:
The outcast on a step to die;
The lady to a scene of light,
Where Joy alone did sigh.
But angels saw amid her hair
What was by human eyes unseen;
The grass that grows on graves was there,
With leaves of ghastly green.
And though her diamonds flashed the light
Upon the flatterers gathered near,
The outcast's brow had gem more bright—
An angel's pitying tear.
Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.