A Tear for the Stricken Poor

Oh! not alone in the halls of pride, 
     Or the monarch's princely dwelling, 
Where the rich and lordly ones abide, 
And the fairy forms of beauty glide,—
When hopes that have bound to earth have died,
     Is the sigh of sorrow swelling.

In the stately homes of the great and proud, 
     Pomp crowneth their gilded sorrow;
And though at times o'er their memories crowd 
Sad thoughts of the grave and the sable shroud, 
In the blaze of their pride, like the sunlit cloud, 
     They're lost ere the dawn of the morrow.

But when there is only one fond tie
      ‘Twixt earth and the stricken-hearted;
How Hope will sicken, and Pleasure die, 
And the scalding tear-drop dim the eye, 
As the hand of the Spoiler passeth by, 
     And that only link is parted.

Where the poor man bends in his humble shed,
     There is sorrow, deep and real,
When the gentle flower hath bowed its head
Before the shaft of the Stern One sped, 
And fading away at his frown hath fled 
     The light of his hope's ideal.

Then weep for the poor whose bleeding heart 
     Is desolate and forsaken;
For him let the tear of your sympathy start, 
When the loving and loved from his side depart, 
Most cherished, yet first to receive the dart;
     For him let your sorrow awaken.