Of late I saw him on his staff reclin'd,
Bow'd down beneath a weary weight of woes,
Without a roof to shelter from the wind
His head, all hoar with many a winter's snows.
All tremb'ling he approach'd, he strove to speak;
The voice of misery scarce my ear assail'd;
A flood of sorrow swept his furrow'd cheek,
Remembrance check'd him, and his utt'rance fail'd.
For he had known full many a better day;
And when the poor-man at his threshold bent,
He drove him not with aching heart away,
But freely shar'd what Providence had sent.
How hard for him, the stranger's boon to crave,
And live to want the mite his bounty gave!