The Promise

Not charity we ask,     Nor yet thy gift refuse;     Please thy light fancy with the easy task     Only to look and choose.     The little-heeded toy     That wins thy treasured gold     May be the dearest memory, holiest joy,     Of coming years untold.     Heaven rains on every heart,     But there its showers divide,     The drops of mercy choosing, as they part,     The dark or glowing side.     One kindly deed may turn     The fountain of thy soul     To love's sweet day-star, that shall o'er thee burn     Long as its currents roll.     The pleasures thou hast planned, -     Where shall their memory be     When the white angel with the freezing hand     Shall sit and watch by thee?     Living, thou dost not live,     If mercy's spring run dry;     What Heaven has lent thee wilt thou freely give,     Dying, thou shalt not die.     HE promised even so!     To thee his lips repeat, -     Behold, the tears that soothed thy sister's woe     Have washed thy Master's feet!     March 20, 1859.