Go to the sick man’s chamber; low and soft
    Falls on the listening ear a sweet-toned voice;
    A hand as gentle as the summer breeze,
    Ever inclined to offices of good,
    Smooths o’er the sick man’s pillow, and then turns
    To trim the midnight lamp, moisten the lips,
    And, passing over, soothe the fevered brow. 
    Thus charity finds place in woman’s heart;
    And woman kind, and beautiful, and good,
    Doth thus administer to every want,
    Nor wearies in her task, but labors on,
    And finds her joy in that which she imparts. 
        Go to the prisoner’s cell; to-morrow’s light
    Shall be the last on earth he e’er shall see. 
    He mutters hate ’gainst all, and threatens ill
    To every semblance of the human form. 
    Deep in his soul remorse, despair and hate,
    Dwell unillumined by one ray of light,
    And sway his spirit as the waves are swayed
    By wind and storm.  He may have cause to hold
    His fellow-men as foes; for, at the first
    Of his departure from an upright course,
    They scorned and shunned and cursed him. 
    They sinn‚d thus, and he, in spite for them,
    Kept on his sullen way from wrong to wrong. 
    Which is the greatest sinner?  He shall say
    Who of the hearts of men alone is judge. 
        Now, in his cell condemned, he waits the hour,
    The last sad hour of mortal life to him. 
    His oaths and blasphemies he sudden stays! 
    He thinks he hears upon his prison door
    A gentle tap.  O, to his hardened heart
    That gentle sound a sweet remembrance brings
    Of better days-two-score of years gone by,
    Days when his mother, rapping softly thus,
    Called him to morning prayer.  Again ’t is heard. 
    Is it a dream?  Asleep!  He cannot sleep
    With chains around and shameful death before him! 
    Is it the false allurement of some foe
    Who would with such enticement draw him forth
    To meet destruction ere the appointed time? 
        Softened and calmed, each angry passion lulled,
    By a soft voice, “Come in,” he trembling calls. 
    Slow on its hinges turns the ponderous door,
    And “Friend,” the word that falls from stranger lips. 
    As dew on flowers, as rain on parch‚d ground,
    So came the word unto the prisoner’s ear. 
    He speaks not-moves not.  O, his heart is full,
    Too full for utterance; and, as floods of tears
    Flow from his eyes so all unused to weep,
    He bows down low, e’en at the stranger’s feet. 
        He had not known what ’t was to have a friend. 
    The word came to him like a voice from heaven,
    A voice of love to one who’d heard but hate. 
    “Friend!” Mysterious word to him who’d known no friend. 
    O, what a power that simple word hath o’er him! 
    As now he holds the stranger’s