Chilled to the heart with the terrible cold, Both to get back were most truly-solicitous, Never before was the saying old, "As cold as charity," half so felicitous.
They hastened back to Broadway, when she said, That one more journey that night she'd lead him, Before she'd let him go home to bed. And he, not caring to quibble or question, At once fell in with the lady's suggestion, Not thinking she'd "one more" lecture to read him.
This time they took a course rectilinear Southward, and landed in Norfolk, Virginia.
Pestilence there was doing its worst, Hundreds were dying, and hundreds were dead. Many who should have been bravest, the first Had deserted their trust, and shamelessly fled. But men from the Northern cities were there, Nursing the sick with the tenderest care, Whose kindred had fled to less dangerous lands, Leaving the dying to strangers' hands.
While the two stood quiet beside the bed Of a patient sufferer, Charity said:
"Who hath sent these strangers here, These dying men to soothe and cheer? To do what mortal skill may do To lighten their burdens of grief and woe; To shrive these dying souls of blame, To bid them hope in Heaven above. Who hath sent these in my dear name To do this holiest work of love? Hath the treasure here given been paid by those Whose 'wrongs' are so earnestly plead by you? Or hath it been done by their 'natural foes,' The wealthy, the rich, the opulent few Of Madison Square and the Fifth Avenue?"
During this lengthy interrogation The Spirit had been pretending to doze, But he waked himself up at the peroration, And most ungallantly turned up his nose, And turned on his heel, and turned him away,-- Sulkily saying, he'd Nothing to Say.
Dear Readers, I'll ask one question of you-- Don't you think it may possibly chance to be true, That Charity, really, not merely in fables, May apparel herself in satins and sables, And costliest ribbons, and fragilest laces, Like the daintiest beauties of Madison Square, And may take up a home in the loftiest places, With those who've, satirically, Nothing to Wear?
And in that blissful realm above, Where the poor and the rich meet in meekness and love: Where the works of each heart are unveiled to the light, And Humbug and Cant yield to Truth and to Right-- Where the trickster lays off his mask of deceit, And the cloak of the hypocrite drops to his feet, And Honor is given, where Honor is due-- We _may_ see that some from the Fifth Avenue, Most nobly will speak in that great reckoning day, While their earthly detractors have NOTHING TO SAY.