Obliterates his cruel past;

Yet not for long; for though well-fed,
With warmer garments than before,
He hath no place to lay his head,
On turning from my friendly door.

I slip some silver in his hand,
('Twill purchase shelter for the night,)
Then, silent and remorseful, stand
To watch his bent form out of sight.

On, on he goes through snow and sleet,
With nothing more of warmth and cheer!
From such a home to such a street!
Ah, should I not have kept him here?

My room is no less bright and warm,
But all its charm and joy have fled;
That lonely figure in the storm
Leaves both our hearts uncomforted.

For this is but one tiny wave
In life's vast, shoreless sea of woe,--
One note in man's hoarse cry to save,
Resounding o'er its ebb and flow;

I ask myself in blank dismay,--
Ought I my little wealth to own?
Yet, should I give it all away,