II.

  A sympathetic word or kiss,
  (Mildred had insight to discern,)
  Though grateful quite, is quite amiss,
  In leading to the life etern
  The soul that has no bread in this.

  The present want must aye be fed,
  And first relieved the present care: 
  “Give us this day our daily bread”
  Must be recited in our prayer
  Before “forgive us” may be said.

  And he who lifts a soul from vice,
  And leads the way to better lands;
  Must part his raiment, share his slice,
  And oft with weary, bleeding hands,
  Pave the long path with sacrifice.

  So on a pleasant summer morn,
  Wrapped in her motive, sweet and safe,
  She sought the homes of sin and scorn,
  And found her little Sunday waif
  Ragged, and hungry, and forlorn.

  She called her quickly to her knee;
  And with her came a motley troop
  Of children, poor and foul as she,
  Who gathered in a curious group,
  And ceased their play, to hear and see.

  Tanned brown by all the summer suns,
  With brutish brows and vacant eyes,
  They drank her speech and ate her buns,
  While she behind their sad disguise
  Beheld her dear Lord’s “little ones.”

  She stood like Ruth amid the wheat,
  With ready hand and sickle keen,
  And looked on all with aspect sweet;
  For where she only thought to glean,
  She found a harvest round her feet.

  Ah! little need the tale to write
  Of garments begged from door to door,
  Of needles plying in the night,
  And money gathered from the store
  Alike of screw and Sybarite,

  With which to clothe the little flock. 
  She went like one sent forth of God
  To loose the bolts of heart and lock,
  And with the smiting of her rod
  To call a flood from every rock.

  And little need the tale to tell
  How, when the Sunday came again,
  A wondrous change the group befell,
  And how from every noisome den,
  Responding to the chapel bell,

  They issued forth with shout and call,
  And Mildred walking at their head,
  Who, with her silken parasol,
  Bannered the army that she led,
  And with low words commanded all.

  The little army walked through smiles
  That hung like lamps above their march,
  And lit their swart and straggling files,
  While bending elm and plumy larch
  Shaped into broad cathedral aisles

  The paths that led with devious trend
  To where the ivied chapel stood,
  There their long passage found its end,
  And there they gathered in a brood
  Of gentle clamor round their friend.

  A score pressed in on either side
  To share the burden of her care,
  And hearts and house gave entrance wide
  To those to whom the words of prayer
  Were stranger than the curse of pride.