CHANGE. FATHER! there is no change to live with Thee, The morning comes with blushes overspread, With new-found zeal I might thy precepts keep. THE POOR. I WALK the streets and though not meanly drest, That fails when most I want a friendly arm; I cannot on the loaves and fishes feed That want the blessing that they may not harm; From tongues that now but speak to utter death; But drink the riled stream of lying breath; And wander on though in my Fatherland, Yet hear no welcome voice and see no beckoning hand. THE CLAY. THOU shalt do what Thou wilt with thine own hand, New tints and forms with every hour they take WHO HATH EARS TO HEAR LET HIM HEAR. THE sun doth not the hidden place reveal, TO THE PURE ALL THINGS ARE PURE. THE flowers I pass have eyes that look at me, |