A hand that grasps the wealth of earth, and yields
    For sake of it the richer stores of heaven;
    A soul that loves the perishing of earth,
    And hates that wealth which rust can ne’er corrupt. 
    How many such!  How many bar their souls
    ’Gainst every good, yet ope it wide to wrong! 
    This night they’re all in arms.  They watch and wait;
    Now that the sun hath fled, and evening’s shade
    Doth follow in its path, they put in play
    The plans which they in daylight have devised,
    Entrapping thoughtless feet, and leading down
    The flower-strewn path a daughter or a son,
    On whose fair, white brow, the warm, warm moisture
    Of a parent’s kiss seems yet to linger. 
    Stay! daughter, son, O, heed a friend’s advice,
    Rush not in thoughtless gayety along! 
    Beware of pit-fills.  Listen and you’ll hear
    From some deep pit a warning voice to thee;
    For thousands low have fallen, who once had
    Hopes, prospects, fair as thine; they listened, fell! 
    And from the depths of their deep misery call
    On thee to think.  O, follow not, but reach
    A helping hand to raise them from their woe! 
        Clouds hide the moon; how now doth wrong prevail! 
    Wrong holdeth carnival, and death is near. 
    O, what a sight were it for man to see,
    Should there on this dark, shrouded hour
    Burst in an instant forth a noonday light! 
    How many who are deem‚d righteous men,
    And bear a fair exterior by day,
    Would now be seen in fellowship with sin! 
    Laughing, and sending forth their jibes and jeers,
    And doing deeds which Infamy might own. 
        But not alone to wrong and base intrigue
    Do minister these shades of night; for Love
    Holds high her beacon Charity to guide
    To deeds that angels might be proud to own. 
    Beneath the shadows that these clouds do cast,
    Hath many a willing hand bestowed a gift
    Its modest worth in secret would confer. 
    No human eye beheld the welcome purse
    Dropped at the poor man’s humble cottage door;
    But angels saw the act, and they have made
    A lasting record of it on the scroll
    That bears the register of human life. 
        Many a patient sufferer watches now
    The passing hours, and counts them as they flee. 
    Many a watcher with a sleepless eye
    Keeps record of the sick man’s every breath. 
    Many a mother bends above her child
    In deep solicitude, in deathless love. 
        Night wears away, and up the eastern sky
    The dawn approaches.  So shall life depart,—­
    This life of ours on earth,—­and a new birth
    Approach to greet us with immortal joys,
    So gently on our inner life shall come
    The light of heaven. 
        Time moveth on, and I must join again
    The busy toil of life; and