If the world flatter thee with soft-voiced art,
Know 't is a conning witch who charms thy heart.
Whose habit is to wed man's soul with grief,
And those who are dose-hound in love to part.

He who bestows his wealth upon the poor,
Has only lent it to the Lord, be sure —
Of what avail to clasp it with clenched hand ?
It goes not with ns to the grave obscure.

The voice of those who dwell within the tomb,
Who in corruption's house have made their home ;
" O ye who wander o'er us still to-day,
When will ye come to share with us the gloom ?"

How can'st thou ever of the world complain.
And murmuring, burden it with all thy pain ?
Silence ! thou art a traveller at an inn,
A guest, who may but over night remain.

Be thou not wroth against the proud, but show '
How he who yesterday great joy did know.
To-day is begging for his very bread.
And painfully upon a crutch must go.

How foolish they whose faith is fixed upon
The treasures of their worldly wealth alone.
Far wiser were it to obey the Lord,
And only say, " The will of God be done ! "