Ask thee, oh God! for bread and day!

Think! think! ye men who daily wear
"Purple and linen"--ye whose hair
Flings perfume on the temper'd air.

Think! think! I say, aye! start and think
That many tremble on death's brink--
Dying for want of meat and drink.

When tatter'd poor folk meet your eyes,
Think, friend, like Christian, in this wise,
Each one is Christ hid in disguise.

Then when you hear the tempest's roar
That thunders at your carved door,
Know that, it knocketh for the poor.




A LITTLE PICTURE.

Oft when pacing thro' the long and dim
Dark gallery of the Past, I pause before
A picture of which this is a copy--
Wretched at best.

How fair she look'd, standing a-tiptoe there,
Pois'd daintily upon her little feet!