POOR LITTLE JOE.

A ring on the door bell,

Some one at the door,

Mute asking admittance

Where never before

A stranger in midnight,

In silence and stealth,

Sought access to gain

In a mansion of wealth.

Into the gaslight

A package is borne;

Quickly from round it

The wrappings are torn.

What is it? a baby!

What seek you to-night,

So rosy and smiling,

Nor in fear, nor in fright?

Ah! little intruder,

What is it you wear

So close to your breast?

Sure but hand in despair

Could have written the message

Unconscious you bear,

And “loved” and “God blessed” you

While leaving you there.

Let's see the story

‘ Tis telling for you;

How brief and pathetic;

But can it be true?

A mother heart brokenly

Praying in grief

From hand of a stranger

Her baby's relief.

“He's helpless and homeless,

But stainless as snow;

O, take him and keep him —

My poor little Joe.”

That's all there is of it,

If false or if true;

Yet long enough seems it,

And sad enough, too.

No love-welcomed greeted

The sweet baby face,

In the life that gave his life

There was not a place.

No place for the baby,

There's none for him here,

No heart that may give him

A smile or a tear.

Off to the refuge,

For such, he must go,

He's only a foundling —

Poor little Joe.

Deserted, forsaken,

Thrust out in the strife,

Adrift on the pitiless

Ocean of life.

What will become of him,

Who may decide

If good or if evil

His life shall betide.

No tender caresses

Ever to know,

Nor guidance, nor blessing —

Poor little Joe.