Lessons of the Street

Walking through life’s dusty highways,
  Mid the tramp of hurrying feet,
We may gather much instruction
  From the “lessons of the street.”

Now a beggar sues for succor⁠—
  Nay, repress that look of pride!
’Neath that wrecked and shattered body
  Doth a human soul reside.

Here’s a brow that seems to tell you,
  “I am prematurely old;
I have spent my youthful vigor
  In an eager search for gold.”

On the cheek of yon pale student
  Is a divorcement most unkind⁠—
’Tis the cruel separation
  Of his body from his mind.

Here a painted child of shame
  Flaunts in costly robes of sin,
With a reckless mirth that cannot
  Hide the smouldering fires within.

And here’s a face, so calm and mild,
  Mid the restless din and strife;
It seems to say, in every line,
  “I’m aiming for a higher life.”

Just then I caught a mournful glance,
  As on the human river rushed,
A harrowing look, which plainly said,
  “The music of my life is hushed.”

Look on that face, so deathly pale,
  Its bloom and flush forever fled:
I started, for it seemed to bear
  A message to the silent dead.

Thus hurries on the stream of life,
  To empty where Death’s waters meet;
We pass along, we pass away⁠—
  Thus end the lessons of the street.