Let thy sad eye look round thee everywhere,
When the rich showers or golden sunbeams come,
And plenty greets thee from the teeming sod—
The fruit that blossoms from the hand of God?
“Give us our daily bread;” Heaven whispers, “Yes.”
“Give us our daily bread;” Earth mutters, “No,”
And mocks the weepings of her sons’ distress:
Bright hours of change are coming, sure though slow,
When pride, and want, and error shall be less,
And more of Heaven be registered below;