What wilt _thou_ do, slothful servant,
With no gathered sheaf to bring?
How canst thou stand, empty-handed,
In the presence of thy King?

Lo! the field is white for harvest,
And the laborers are few;
Canst thou, then, oh, slothful servant.
Find no work that thou canst do?
Angels wait to bear the tidings
Of some good that thou hast done;
Then, to patient, earnest labor,
Waken, ere the set of sun!




THE WORLD'S DAY.


Dark was the world when from the bowers
Of forfeit Eden man went forth,
With aching heart and blighted powers,
To till the sterile soil of earth;
Yet, even then, a glimmering light
Faintly illumed the eastern skies,
And, struggling through the mists of night,
Beamed soft on Abel's sacrifice.

It shone on Abram's eager eyes