A vastly unbusiness-like thing in the eyes of the vassals of
Trade!--
Is devoted in silence unseen to the outcast, the old, and the poor.
Five hundred such waifs are here housed, and _they yearn to find
refuge for more!_
That's the pith of the matter, dear Madam! And as for the rest,
I've returned
From a visit, and fancy your heart, like my own, would have
lightened and burned!
Had you walked through the wards, as I walked, with a Sister as
frank and unfeigned
As sweet Charity's servant should be. There was nothing o'er
piously strained
In this unrigid Refuge for helplessness. Cheeriness, confidence,
mirth
Seemed to reign in these child-crowded rooms--in these wards where
the aged, whose birth
Dated well-nigh a century back, whether sewing, or smoking, or prone
On the pallet of sickness, all _smiled_, and no soul seemed
forlorn or alone.
How they sang, those close clustering toddlers, their curly heads
tier above tier,
With never a trace of restraint, and unknowing the shadow of fear!
Here timidity checks not the young, and here weariness haunts not
the old.
There is laughter on age-shrivelled lips, and the eyes of mere
babies are bold
With the confidence born but of love. Even imbeciles, helpless and
blind,
Shut out at each sense from full life, yet can feel unseen