"RA CK- O >-B ONES." 1 89
Fold up his hands on his pauper shroud,
He has fallen back from the busy crowd
Back from the haunts that have known him stepped
Back to a merciful Maker crept.
Somebody tenderly smooth his hair On his forehead cold ; it once was fair. A mother loved him somebody say A pitiful word ; a blossom lay On his breast not rare ones born in bowers, But sun-bright daisies, wayside flowers, Such as God gives to the beggar s hand, As thick as their silver crowns can stand.
Somebody think what his life has been Solemn with sorrow and soiled with sin ; Goaded by treason, by hunger tried : Longing for good, yet unsatisfied ; Nameless, except for a pauper jest Whose title touches his slenderness. Hither at last has the pathway led From a cradle down to a work-house bed.
Somebody think ! Did he ever pray, Or ever know how the beggar lay On the good man s breast in Paradise, Whom Dives saw with his longing eyes ? Did no one read to him that great will Which made him rich, though a beggar still ? Did no one tell him about the Friend Who over the lowliest one will bend ?