For failing food, six days in seven,
We till the black town's dust and gloom :
But here we drink the breath of heav'n,
And here to pray the poor have room.
The stately temple, built with hands,
Throws wide its doors to pomp and pride;
But in the porch their beadle stands,
And thrusts the child of toil aside.
Therefore we seek the daisied plain,
Or climb thy hills, to touch thy feet;
Here, far from splendour's city-fane,
Thy weary sons and daughters meet.
Is it a crime to tell Thee here,
That here the sorely-tried are met?
To seek thy face, and find Thee near?
And on thy rock our feet to set?
Where, wheeling wide, the plover flies;
Where sings the woodlark on the tree;
Beneath the music of thy skies,

Is it a crime to worship Thee?

"We waited long, and sought Thee, Lord,"

Content to toil, but not to pine;

And with the weapons of thy Word
Alone, assail'd our foes and thine.

Thy truth and Thee, we bade them fear;
They spurn thy truth, and mock our moan!
"Thy counsels, Lord, they will not hear,
And Thou hast left them to their own."

THE POOR MAN'S DAY.

GRAHAME.

SABBATH holy !
To the lowly

Still art thou a welcome day.

When thou comest, earth and ocean,
Shade and brightness, rest and motion,
Help the poor man's heart to pray.

Sun-waked forest!

Bird, that soarest

O'er the mute, empurpled moor! Throstle's song, that stream-like flowest! Wind, that over dewdrop goest!

Welcome now the woe-worn poor.

Little river,

Young for ever!

Cloud, gold-bright with thankful glee!

Happy woodbine, gladly weeping!

Gnat, within the wild rose keeping!

Oh, that they were bless'd as ye!

Sabbath holy!

For the lowly

Paint with flowers thy glittering sod; For affliction's sons and daughters, Bid thy mountains, woods, and waters, Pray to God, the poor man's God!

From the fever,
(Idle never

Where on Hope Want bars the door,)

From the gloom of airless alleys,

Lead thou to green hills and valleys

Weary Lordland's trampled poor!

Pale young mother!
Gasping brother!

Sister, toiling in despair!

Grief-bow'd sire, that life-long diest !

White-lipp'd child, that sleeping sighest!
Come, and drink the light and air.

Still God liveth ;

Still he giveth

What no law can take away;

And, oh, Sabbath! bringing gladness

Unto hearts of weary sadness,

Still art thou "The Poor Man's Day!"

HYMN.

To live in vain! to live in pain!
To toil in hopeless sadness!

Is this the doom of godlike man,

Oh, God of Love and Gladness? Not so the rose in summer blows, Not so the moon her changes knows, Not so the storm his madness.

From storms that rock the oak to sleep,
Thy woods their beauty borrow;
And flowers, to-day, unheeded weep,
Whose seeds will live to-morrow:

So man, by painful ages taught,
Will build, at last, on truthful thought,
And wisdom, won from sorrow.

Else, what a lie were written wide,
By thy right hand, my Father,
O'er all thy seas, in crimson dyed
When Morning is a bather;

O'er all thy vales of growing gold;

Or where, on mountains black with cold, Thy clouds to battle gather.

PRAYER.

BLESS'D be thy name, Eternal One!
Thy kingdom come! thy will be done!
Give us, this day, our daily food;
Requite us, Lord, with good for good!
Aid us temptation to repel;

And from all evil guard us well :
For thine the kingdom still will be,

All glory, and all sov'reignty.

THE IMITATED LANE.

Now, Landscape-Maker, that with living trees
Createst Painting! thou should'st hither come,
And here learn how the town-sick heart to please.
Can'st thou not, in thy tiny wild, find room
For a wild lane, that with capricious ease

Shading or brightening self-taught branch or flower,
Will saunter gently to a seated bower?

Or lead thee through a cloudlet of green gloom,
Cheer'd by the music of its hidden rills,