THE WORKER TO THE SHIRKER.

You talk of the rivers and streamlets

In a very pleasant way,

And the winds that sweep the hill-tops,
And sing to you at your play.
Brother! the rivers tell us

Of water-wheels and mills,

And the winds come to us seldom
From yonder heathery hills.

You talk to us of beauty,

Of the ship that rides the floods Of the yellow waving corn fields, Of the glorious autumn woods. Brother! the ships but bring us

Work for the hand and head; And the waving corn fields tell us Of the thing we work for-bread.

You talk of our mighty workshops,
Where we mould things as we will,
And you call them the country's glory;
Grander and grander still

This in your dinner speeches;
But, brother! you never tell
Of the myriad restless fingers
That do their work so well.

You sing to us while we labour,
And tell us of other lands;

And you lecture to us, and "love" us,
And shake our hardened hands;
Very noble and good of you, brother!
God is our only judge!
But this philanthropic business

Seems sometimes to breathe of fudge!

You talk to us of "freedom,"

Of justice, truth, and right;

(About one year in seven

When our poor votes have might.)
Brother! there is no freedom
Beneath yon vault of blue;

For if self be not our master,
We must be slaves to you!

You talk to us of our Maker,

Of His "church," and "the day of prayer" Are not His days all prayer days?

Is He not everywhere?

Brother! six days in seven

A close, hot place we know ;
And on Sunday we want the hill tops,
Where our lungs may have a blow.

You chat of the money markets

Cosily at your meals,

And say "over-speculation

Has stopped our commerce wheels."

Not so coolly, for God's sake, brother!

Speak in a serious mood;

This is the blight in our corn fields,
This stoppage is want of food.

We hear of your many pleasures,
And the wondrous food you buy ;
And you pray to God, as we do,
That He will your "wants" supply!
Brother! what is your meaning

When thus of your wants you speak?
We mean, three good meals daily,
And meat, say twice a week.

Well, well, it does seem strange like
That an accident of birth

Should give to one class of people

All the good things of the earth. Brother! does this e'er strike you,

'Mongst other wonderful things— If we both go to Heaven,

Shall you have the brighter wings?

THE MAN OF PECULIAR VIEWS.

OH! narrow heart and narrower head,

That striv'st to teach when thou should'st learn; We hunger for the "daily bread,"

For the great simple truth we yearn ;
We seek the precious fount of Christ,
Whose waters flow, as rain from skies;
We would not have religion priced,
And parcelled out like merchandise.

Oh! narrow heart and narrower head,
The love of Christ is ocean-broad;
And thou would'st narrow it to a thread,
A tiny, barred, and gated road.
We seek the Christ who met the grave,
All men to ransom and set free;
Thou showest us one who died to save
A fashionable coterie.

Oh! narrow heart, and narrower head
Art thou a servant of the Lord?
Rememberest thou what He has said?

Hast thou not read the written word?

Thou stoppest thine ears, thou wilt not hear;
For Christ still crieth, "Feed my lambs ;"
And when the hungry ones draw near,

Thou offerest sentimental shams.

Oh! narrow heart and narrower head,
Paid livery-man of the Most High;
Sleeker and better nourished

Than was thy Master, thou dost cry— "I am the door, I am the way,

Do this and that, all others flee;

Have faith in all the things I say,

Come, and be saved, through Christ and me!"

Oh! narrow heart and narrower head,
Fashioner of pretty vests and stoles !
Painter of walls! the soft-of-tread
Dandy conservator of souls!
Wandering amid God's solemn ways,

As boys 'mid flowers and butterflies;
The light of head, the light of gaze;

Loved of the fool, scorned of the wise.

Oh! narrow heart and narrower head,
The maiden, with the shifting mind,
Thou snarest, but strong men are fed

By other food than thou canʼst find.
Poor worm! thou canst not teach us worms;
We will not listen to thy speech

Whilst thou dost deal in wooden forms,
And place God all above our reach.

Perchance 'tis ordered for our good
That thou, a priest, should'st wander so;
That thus it might be understood

No trust is safe in aught below.