Classic Poem

Though but a dime, a simple dime,
I run a bright career,
And have a voice whose silvery chime,
Like music, wins the ear.

Where'er I go, I'm still received
With ready, grasping hand:
The rich, the poor, and the bereaved
My mission understand.

Yet ere I can my mission prove,
Though never seeking rest,
The miser, with a miser's love,
Oft locks me in his chest.

Imprisoned there I'm doomed to wait,
Still sighing to be free,
Until the tyrant yields to fate,
And heirs obtain the key.

In social circles, high and low,
I have a wide, wide range;
And still am sought, as you may know,
By those who seek for “change.”

A changing life it is I lead;
And, though grown old and thin,
I still remain a slave indeed,
Nor favors hope to win.

In ways that seem at first but small,
Large fortunes oft I spend;
Amass them too, when saving all
I find a faithful friend.

Yet many an orphan's heart I cheer
With stinted loaves of bread,
And oft illume the widow's tear
In pensive silence shed.

And yet the widow, poor indeed,
Oft casts me, as her mite,
In aid of those who still have need
Of gospel truth and light.

And thus from hand to hand I go,
And do what good I can:
Yet much I do, in idle show,
For woman and for man;

Nor cease to learn from day to day,
As I enact my part,
How few are they who care to weigh
The motives of the heart.