Have you never felt that beauty

Lies in pain for others borne ?
That the sacredness of duty
Bids you offer love for scorn?

Believe in God.

"But you tell me that I mock you
With a measured mincing verse-
O my brothers! I could lock you
To my heart while I rehearse.
But you tell me that your anguish
your death-toil drive you mad;
That you see your children languish,
Your beloved ones spirit-sad.

And

Believe in God.

"And you say 'in homestead quiet,' Where the roses climb and creep,

Where the vine is running riot,

And the bees sing you to sleep,

You can give us counsel gravest,
You can fancy and refine:

And you think your heart the bravest,
And you call your creed divine.
Believe in God.

"But if you had borne the burden And the heat of England's day,

Then

your hearts like ours would harden-. You would not believe and pray;

R

If your soul like ours was hoary
With the grief of many years,
You would never look for glory,
Hope for life beyond the spheres,
Nor trust in God.

"Once a husband, once a father,
I could praise and I could pray;
That is over now—I rather

Turn to God from God away.

No! I do not speak in malice,

You, too, from your creed would swerve,

Had you seen your little Alice

And her saintly mother starve.

There is no God."

“O my brothers! this is grievous!
But I still believe in God,

Still I think He will not leave us,
And I kneel and kiss the rod.
Trust me, too, that not so brightly
Have life's waters flow'd for me;

Sorrow daily, sorrow nightly,

Comes alike to me and thee.

Believe in God.

"I too have been hunger-bitten; Much of sorrow and of sin, More than ever could be written,

Dwells this failing heart within.

Broken health, and pain, and trial,

Loss of worldly gear are mine; Yet, on God's eternal dial

God's eternal sunbeams shine.

Believe in God.

"I through doubt and darkness travel, Through the agony and gloom, Hoping that I shall unravel

This strange web beyond the tomb. O my brothers! men heroic!

Workers both with hand and brain!

'Tis the Christian, not the stoic, That best triumphs over pain.

Believe in God.

"O my brothers! love and labour,
Conquer wrong by doing right;
Truth alone must be your sabre,
Love alone your shield in fight.
Virtues yet shall cancel vices;

Love alone, beloved mates!

Only God himself suffices

Those whom God alone creates.

Believe in God."

THOMAS COOPER, 1805

THE KINGS OF THE SOIL.

BLACK sin may nestle below a crest,
And crime below a crown ;

As good hearts beat 'neath a fustian vest,
As under a silken gown.

Shall tales be told of the chiefs who sold
Their sinews to crush and kill,
And never a word be sung or heard
Of the men who reap and till?
I bow in thanks to the sturdy throng

Who greet the young Morn with toil;
And the burden I give my earnest song

Shall be this-The Kings of the Soil!
Then sing for the Kings who have no crown
But the blue sky o'er their head;—
Never Sultan or Dey had such power as they,
To withhold or to offer bread.

Proud ships may hold both silver and gold,
The wealth of a distant strand;

But ships would rot and be valued not,
Were there none to till the land.

The wildest heath, and the wildest brake,

Are rich as the richest fleet,

For they gladden the wild birds when they wake,

And give them food to eat.

And with willing hand, and spade and plough,

The gladdening hour shall come,

When that which is call'd the "waste land" now,
Shall ring with the "Harvest Home."
Then sing for the Kings who have no crown
But the blue sky o'er their head;-
Never Sultan or Dey had such power as they,
To withhold or to offer bread.

I value him whose foot can tread
By the corn his hand hath sown;
When he hears the stir of the yellow reed
It is more than music's tone.

There are prophet-sounds that stir the grain,
When its golden stalks shoot up;
Voices that tell how a world of men
Shall daily dine and sup.

Then shame, oh, shame on the miser creed,
Which holds back praise or pay

From the men whose hands make rich the
lands,-

For who earn it more than they?

Then sing for the Kings who have no crown
But the blue sky o'er their head;—

Never Sultan or Dey had such power as they,
To withhold or to offer bread.

The poet hath gladden'd with song the past,
And still sweetly he striketh the string;
But a brighter light on him is cast

Who can plough as well as sing.

The wand of Burns had a double power
To soften the common heart,