With faded gown, and bonnet out of shape.
Her wares display'd, all wither'd, dead, or sere;
Their freshness lost long since, their fragrance fled.
Yet still the poor old soul, by turns, repeats
Her plaintive cry "Who'll buy my pretty sweets?
Who'll buy my flowers?" the fading stock to clear,
And gain the means of buying bread and meat.
Alas! there are ten thousand such poor souls
In this large city, where the wealth and crime.
And pride and want, and luxury and woe,
Are found together all the live-long time!
And who can help it? Who can clear the street
Of this poor throng of cripples, halt and blind?
Of flower girls and match boys, and the rest,
Who on our pity do for life depend?
Oh! surely the great God who feeds the birds,
Will care for those He made, in His own image.
And send the wealthy means to help the poor.
And find employment for them, if He will!
Meanwhile let none e'er pass these poor neglected ones.
Without a kind and sympathizing word:
And help them, if they can—a little help
May save much suffering, and may avert much crime.