| In a dark and dismal alley where the sunshine never came, |
| Dwelt a little lad named Tommy, sickly, delicate, and lame; |
| He had never yet been healthy, but had lain since he was born |
| Dragging out his weak existence well nigh hopeless and forlorn. |
| |
| He was six, was little Tommy, 'twas just five years ago |
| Since his drunken mother dropped him, and the babe was crippled so. |
| He had never known the comfort of a mother's tender care, |
| But her cruel blows and curses made his pain still worse to bear. |
| |
| There he lay within the cellar, from the morning till the night, |
| Starved, neglected, cursed, ill-treated, nought to make his dull life |
| bright; |
| Not a single friend to love him, not a loving thing to love— |
| For he knew not of a Saviour, or a heaven up above. |
| |
| 'Twas a quiet, summer evening, and the alley, too, was still; |
| Tommy's little heart was sinking, and he felt so lonely, till, |
| Floating up the quiet alley, wafted inwards from the street, |
| Came the sound of some one singing, sounding, oh! so clear and sweet. |
| |
| Eagerly did Tommy listen as the singing came— |
| Oh! that he could see the singer! How he wished he wasn't lame. |
| Then he called and shouted loudly, till the singer heard the sound, |
| And on noting whence it issued, soon the little cripple found. |
| |
| 'Twas a maiden rough and rugged, hair unkempt, and naked feet, |
| All her garments torn and ragged, her appearance far from neat; |
| "So yer called me," said the maiden, "wonder wot yer wants o' me; |
| Most folks call me Singing Jessie; wot may your name chance to be?" |
| |
| "My name's Tommy; I'm a cripple, and I want to hear you sing, |
| For it makes me feel so happy—sing me something, anything," |
| Jessie laughed, and answered smiling, "I can't stay here very long, |
| But I'll sing a hymn to please you, wot I calls the 'Glory Song.'" |
| |
| Then she sang to him of heaven, pearly gates, and streets of gold, |
| Where the happy angel children are not starved or nipped with cold; |
| But where happiness and gladness never can decrease or end, |
| And where kind and loving Jesus is their Sovereign and their Friend. |
| |
| Oh! how Tommy's eyes did glisten as he drank in every word |
| As it fell from "Singing Jessie"—was it true, what he had heard? |
| And so anxiously he asked her, "Is there really such a place?" |
| And a tear began to trickle down his pallid little face. |
| |
| "Tommy, you're a little heathen; why, it's up beyond the sky, |
| And if yer will love the Saviour, yer shall go there when yer die." |
| "Then," said Tommy, "tell me, Jessie, how can I the Saviour love, |
| When I'm down in this 'ere cellar, and He's up in heaven above?" |
| |
| So the little ragged maiden who had heard at Sunday School |
| All about the way to heaven, and the Christian's golden rule, |
| Taught the little cripple Tommy how to love, and how to pray, |
| Then she sang a "Song of Jesus," kissed his cheek and went away. |
| |
| Tommy lay within the cellar which had grown so dark and cold, |
| Thinking all about the children in the streets of shining gold; |
| And he heeded not the darkness of that damp and chilly room, |
| For the joy in Tommy's bosom could disperse the deepest gloom. |
| |
| "Oh! if I could only see it," thought the cripple, as he lay, |
| "Jessie said that Jesus listens and I think I'll try and pray"; |
| So he put his hands together, and he closed his little eyes, |
| And in accents weak, yet earnest, sent this message to the skies:— |
| |
| "Gentle Jesus, please forgive me as I didn't know afore, |
| That yer cared for little cripples who is weak and very poor, |
| And I never heard of heaven till that Jessie came to-day |
| And told me all about it, so I wants to try and pray. |
| |
| "Yer can see me, can't yer, Jesus? Jessie told me that yer could, |
| And I somehow must believe it, for it seems so prime and good; |
| And she told me if I loved you, I should see yer when I die, |
| In the bright and happy heaven that is up beyond the sky. |
| |
| "Lord, I'm only just a cripple, and I'm no use here below, |
| For I heard my mother whisper, she'd be glad if I could go; |
| And I'm cold and hungry sometimes; and I feel so lonely, too, |
| Can't yer take me, gentle Jesus, up to heaven along o' you? |
| |
| "Oh! I'd be so good and patient, and I'd never cry or fret, |
| And your kindness to me, Jesus, I would surely not forget; |
| I would love you all I know of, and would never make a noise— |
| Can't you find me just a corner, where I'll watch the other boys? |
| |
| "Oh! I think yer'll do it, Jesus, something seems to tell me so, |
| For I feel so glad and happy, and I do so want to go, |
| How I long to see yer, Jesus, and the children all so bright! |
| Come and fetch me, won't yer, Jesus? Come and fetch me home tonight!" |
| |
| Tommy ceased his supplication, he had told his soul's desire, |
| And he waited for the answer till his head began to tire; |
| Then he turned towards his corner and lay huddled in a heap, |
| Closed his little eyes so gently, and was quickly fast asleep. |
| |
| Oh, I wish that every scoffer could have seen his little face |
| As he lay there in the corner, in that damp, and noisome place; |
| For his countenance was shining like an angel's, fair and bright, |
| And it seemed to fill the cellar with a holy, heavenly light. |
| |
| He had only heard of Jesus from a ragged singing girl, |
| He might well have wondered, pondered, till his brain began to whirl; |
| But he took it as she told it, and believed it then and there, |
| Simply trusting in the Saviour, and his kind and tender care. |
| |
| In the morning, when the mother came to wake her crippled boy, |
| She discovered that his features wore a look of sweetest joy, |
| And she shook him somewhat roughly, but the cripple's face was cold— |
| He had gone to join the children in the streets of shining gold. |
| |
| Tommy's prayer had soon been answered, and the Angel Death had come |
| To remove him from his cellar, to his bright and heavenly home |
| Where sweet comfort, joy, and gladness never can decrease or end, |
| And where Jesus reigns eternally, his Sovereign and his Friend. |
| |
| John F. Nicholls. |
| It was a bright and lovely summer's morn, |
| Fair bloomed the flowers, the birds sang softly sweet, |
| The air was redolent with perfumed balm, |
| And Nature scattered, with unsparing hand, |
| Her loveliest graces over hill and dale. |
| An artist, weary of his narrow room |
| Within the city's pent and heated walls, |
| Had wandered long amid the ripening fields, |
| Until, remembering his neglected themes, |
| He thought to turn his truant steps toward home. |
| These led him through a rustic, winding lane, |
| Lined with green hedge-rows spangled close with flowers, |
| And overarched by trees of noblest growth. |
| But when at last he reached the farther end |
| Of this sweet labyrinth, he there beheld |
| A vision of such pure, pathetic grace, |
| That weariness and haste were both obscured, |
| It was a child—a young and lovely child |
| With eyes of heavenly hue, bright golden hair, |
| And dimpled hands clasped in a morning prayer, |
| Kneeling beside its youthful mother's knee. |
| Upon that baby brow of spotless snow, |
| No single trace of guilt, or pain, or woe, |
| No line of bitter grief or dark despair, |
| Of envy, hatred, malice, worldly care, |
| Had ever yet been written. With bated breath, |
| And hand uplifted as in warning, swift, |
| The artist seized his pencil, and there traced |
| In soft and tender lines that image fair: |
| Then, when 'twas finished, wrote beneath one word, |
| A word of holiest import—Innocence. |
| |
| Years fled and brought with them a subtle change, |
| Scattering Time's snow upon the artist's brow, |
| But leaving there the laurel wreath of fame, |
| While all men spake in words of praise his name; |
| For he had traced full many a noble work |
| Upon the canvas that had touched men's souls, |
| And drawn them from the baser things of earth, |
| Toward the light and purity of heaven. |
| One day, in tossing o'er his folio's leaves, |
| He chanced upon the picture of the child, |
| Which he had sketched that bright morn long before, |
| And then forgotten. Now, as he paused to gaze, |
| A ray of inspiration seemed to dart |
| Straight from those eyes to his. He took the sketch, |
| Placed it before his easel, and with care |
| That seemed but pleasure, painted a fair theme, |
| Touching and still re-touching each bright lineament, |
| Until all seemed to glow with life divine— |
| 'Twas innocence personified. But still |
| The artist could not pause. He needs must have |
| A meet companion for his fairest theme; |
| And so he sought the wretched haunts of sin, |
| Through miry courts of misery and guilt, |
| Seeking a face which at the last was found. |
| Within a prison cell there crouched a man— |
| Nay, rather say a fiend—with countenance seamed |
| And marred by all the horrid lines of sin; |
| Each mark of degradation might be traced, |
| And every scene of horror he had known, |
| And every wicked deed that he had done, |
| Were visibly written on his lineaments; |
| Even the last, worst deed of all, that left him here, |
| A parricide within a murderer's cell. |
| |
| Here then the artist found him; and with hand |
| Made skillful by its oft-repeated toil, |
| Transferred unto his canvas that vile face, |
| And also wrote beneath it just one word, |
| A word of darkest import—it was Vice. |
| Then with some inspiration not his own, |
| Thinking, perchance, to touch that guilty heart, |
| And wake it to repentance e'er too late, |
| The artist told the tale of that bright morn, |
| Placed the two pictured faces side by side, |
| And brought the wretch before them. With a shriek |
| That echoed through those vaulted corridors, |
| Like to the cries that issue from the lips |
| Of souls forever doomed to woe, |
| Prostrate upon the stony floor he fell, |
| And hid his face and groaned aloud in anguish. |
| "I was that child once—I, yes, even I— |
| In the gracious years forever fled, |
| That innocent and happy little child! |
| These very hands were raised to God in prayer, |
| That now are reddened with a mother's blood. |
| Great Heaven! can such things be? Almighty power, |
| Send forth Thy dart and strike me where I lie!" |
|
| He rose, laid hold upon the artist's arm |
| And grasped it with demoniac power, |
| The while he cried: "Go forth, I say, go forth |
| And tell my history to the tempted youth. |
| I looked upon the wine when it was red, |
| I heeded not my mother's piteous prayers, |
| I heeded not the warnings of my friends, |
| But tasted of the wine when it was red, |
| Until it left a demon in my heart |
| That led me onward, step by step, to this, |
| This horrible place from which my body goes |
| Unto the gallows, and my soul to hell!" |
| He ceased as last. The artist turned and fled; |
| But even as he went, unto his ears |
| Were borne the awful echoes of despair, |
| Which the lost wretch flung on the empty air, |
| Cursing the demon that had brought him there. |