There is a story that hath oft My spirit deeply stirred, None ever at its words have scoffed, Although so often heard. I call to mind no other tale, More fitted for the time; Its pathos cannot wholly fail To consecrate my rhyme. A rich man dwelt in days of old Within a palace rare; Arrayed in purple and in gold He fed on sumptuous fare. And to his gateway there did crawl A Lazar, old and sore, Who begged the crumbs that chanced to fall Upon the palace floor. Alas! in vain the Lazar prayed; They bade him "Quick, begone!" In purple and in gold arrayed Still Dives feasted on. Death came—and Lazarus at last With Angels went to dwell; The rich man's spirit also passed Away from earth—to hell. And thence he lifts his burning eyes In torment and unrest, And sees the Lazar, as he lies In Abraham's holy breast. "One drop, one drop, in Mercy's name, To cool my tongue," he cried, "I am tormented in this flame!" That blessing was denied. O brothers! ye, who riches own, To starving want be just; Heaven counts those riches but a loan, A temporary trust. There is a gulf which yawns between The Wealthy and the Poor, And Love alone that wide ravine Can bridge securely o'er! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE WOMAN'S GENITALS by HAYDEN CARRUTH FUGUE FOR A DROWNED GIRL by JAMES GALVIN ISOLATION by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON QUESTION by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON IN THE JEWISH SYNAGOGUE AT NEWPORT by EMMA LAZARUS |