The poor man helped the poet by

I lay in sorrow, deep distressed:    
My grief a proud man heard;    
His looks were cold, he gave me gold    
But not a kindly word,    
My sorrow passed—I paid him back    
The gold he gave to me;    
Then stood erect and spoke my thanks    
And blessed his Charity.    
I lay in want, in grief and pain:    
A poor man passed my way;    
He bound my head, he gave me bread    
He watched me night and day.    
How shall I pay him back again,    
For all he did to me?    
Oh, gold is great, but greater far    
Is heavenly Sympathy!    
— Charles Mackey