[Written for the Sentinel.]


Crouched in the roadside dust, which powdered whiteThe sorry rags that witnessed to his want,The mendicant mouthed prayers for passing alms.One, piteous, dropped an anna on his palm,And, "Winds blow soft on thee!" the beggar whined.Another, scornful in self-righteous pride,Drew close his garment as he glided by,Then, two steps off, he felt the snarling shot:"No jungle yields to satisfied content."

The West learns of the East, e'en since the timeThe Master trod the lanes of Galilee;And we today, in that pariah's words,May learn a truth. For charityStill tempers the harsh winds of worldly woe,While that dark tangle, woven close by sense,Where sin breeds sickness, with death's seal o'er all,Was never conquered yet by mortal might,Though melting like the snow beneath the sunBefore the patient power which is of God.

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