To Poverty

Pale priestess of a fane discredited,Whose votaries to-day are few or none;Goddess austere, whose touch the vulgar shun,As they would shrink from a Procrustes bed,Hieing to temples where the feast is spread,And life laughs loudly, and the smooth wines run;Wise mother!—least desired 'neath the sun,At thy chill breasts the noblest have been fed.

Great are thy counsels for the brave and strong;Yet do we fear thy brooding mystery,The griefs, the hardships, which about thee throng,The scanty garners where thy harvests be;But seeing what unto the rich belong,We know our debt, O Poverty, to thee!