Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/131



Say, will there come a time when the rich man Will be ashamed of his good clothes and say, I see my brother man, without a roof, Shivering and cold upon this wintry day. Say, will there come a time when he will pause, And throw away his goblet ere he drink, And think unto himself, my fellow men, For want of bread, around me in death sink.

And when the Holy night, the birth, of Christ Brings to the wealthy child the Christmas tree, Ladened with gifts, and lights, the poor man’s child, In his poor room, says sadly, “Naught for me?” Naught but the flowers on his frost-bound pane. Is this the love of neighbor, like one’s self? Oh, Christ of God, Thy Kingdom is not yet, We are not ruled by love, but filthy pelf.

Oh, that Thy kingdom, nearer to our earth, Thy starry kingdom, would draw near in love, And teach our human hearts to know and feel The blessedness of helping man above, The degradation that makes life a hell. Oh, write upon your banners, “Help the poor.” Light the sad eyes, and chase away the care; He will reward you, who was also poor.