The Morning Star And Catholic Messenger

THE PUREST PEARL.
Beside the church door, a-weary and alone,
A blind woman sat on the cold door stone;
The wind was bitter, the snow fell fast.
And a mocking voice in the fitful blast
Seemed ever to echo her moaning cry.
And she begged for alms of the passer-by;
Have pity on me, have pity, I pray:
My back is bent, my head is gray.
The bells were ringing the hour of prayer,
And many good people were gathered there;
But, covered with furs and mantles warm,
They hurried past through the wintry storm.
Some were hoping their souls to save.
And some were thinking of death and the grave,
And, alas! they had no time to heed
The poor asking for charity's meed.
And some were blooming with beauty's grace,
But closely muffled in veils of lace:
They saw not the sorrow, nor heard the moan
Of her who sat on the cold door stone.
At last came one of noble name.
By the city counted the wealthiest dame.
And the pearls that o'er her neck were strung
She proudly there to the beggar flung.
Then followed a maiden, young and fair,
Adorned with clusters of golden hair:
But her dress was thin, and scanty, and worn;
Not even the beggar's seemed more forlorn.
With fearful look and pitying sigh,
She whispered softly, "No jewels have I.
But I give you my prayers, good friend," said she,
"And surely I know God listens to me."
On the poor weak hand, so shrunken and small
The blind woman felt a tear-drop fall;
It is you who have given the purest pearl.
She kissed it, and said to the weeping girl