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.