Limitations of Benevolence

by Julia Ward Howe

　　"The beggar boy is none of mine," The reverend doctor strangely said; "I do not walk the streets to pour Chance benedictions on his head. "And heaven I thank who made me so. That toying with my own dear child, I think not on his shivering limbs, His manners vagabond and wild." Good friend, unsay that graceless word! I am a mother crowned with joy, And yet I feel a bosom pang To pass the little starveling boy. His aching flesh, his fevered eyes His piteous stomach, craving meat; His features, nipt of tenderness, And most, his little frozen feet. Oft, by my fireside's ruddy glow, I think, how in some noisome den, Bred up with curses and with blows, He lives unblest of gods or men. I cannot snatch him from his fate, The tribute of my doubting mind Drops, torch-like, in the abyss of ill, That skirts the ways of humankind. But, as my heart's desire would leap To help him, recognized of none, I thank the God who left him this, For many a precious right foregone. My mother, whom I scarcely knew, Bequeathed this bond of love to me; The heart parental thrills for all The children of humanity.