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Henry T. Stanton
- The University Press of Kentucky
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Wade Hall 151 Henry T. Stanton “The Moneyless Man” Henry T. Stanton was born in 1834 in Virginia but moved with his parents to Maysville; he attended West Point and became a major in the Confederate Army. After the war he practiced law, journalism, and politics and, from time to time, wrote sentimental poems. “The Moneyless Man” is a melodramatic portrait in irregular couplets of poor people who find themselves not welcome in society. The moneyless man, alas, must wait for his reward in Heaven. h Is there no secret place on the face of the earth, Where charity dwelleth, where virtue has birth? Where bosoms in mercy and kindness will heave, When the poor and the wretched shall ask and receive? Is there no place at all, where a knock from the poor, Will bring a kind angel to open the door? Ah, search the wide world wherever you can There is no open door for a Moneyless Man! Go, look in yon hall where the chandelier’s light Drives off with its splendor the darkness of night, Where the rich-hanging velvet in shadowy fold Sweeps gracefully down with its trimmings of gold, And the mirrors of silver take up, and renew, In long lighted vistas the ’wildering view: Go there! at the banquet, and find, if you can, A welcoming smile for a Moneyless Man! Go, look in yon church of the cloud-reaching spire, Which gives to the sun his same look of red fire, Where the arches and columns are gorgeous within, And the walls seem as pure as a soul without sin; Walk down the long aisles, see the rich and the great In the pomp and the pride of their worldly estate; Walk down in your patches, and find, if you can, Who opens a pew to a Moneyless Man. 151 152 The Kentucky Anthology Go, look in the Banks, where Mammon has told His hundreds and thousands of silver and gold; Where, safe from the hands of the starving and poor, Lies pile upon pile of the glittering ore! Walk up to their counters—ah, there you may stay ’Til your limbs grow old, ’til your hairs grow gray, And you’ll find at the Banks not one of the clan With money to lend to a Moneyless Man! Go, look to yon Judge, in his dark-flowing gown, With the scales wherein law weighteth equity down; Where he frowns on the weak and smiles on the strong, And punishes right whilst he justifies wrong; Where juries their lips to the Bible have laid, To render a verdict—they’ve already made: Go there, in the court-room, and find, if you can, Any law for the cause of a Moneyless Man! Then go to your hovel—no raven has fed The wife who has suffered too long for her bread; Kneel down by her pallet, and kiss the death-frost From the lips of the angel your poverty lost: Then turn in your agony upward to God, And bless, while it smites you, the chastening rod, And you’ll find, at the end of your life’s little span, There’s a welcome above for a Moneyless Man! ...