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