Page:Landon in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book 1836.pdf/43

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is the fruit of waking hours When others are asleep, When moaning round the low thatched roof The winds of winter creep.

It is the fruit of summer days Past in a gloomy room, When others are abroad to taste The pleasant morning bloom.

’Tis given from a scanty store And missed while it is given: ’Tis given—for the claims of earth Are less than those of heaven.

Few save the poor feel for the poor, The rich know not how hard It is to be of needful food And needful rest debarred.

Their paths are paths of plenteousness; They sleep on silk and down, And never think how heavily The weary head lies down.

They know not of the scanty meal With small pale faces round; No fire upon the cold, damp hearth, When snow is on the ground.

They never by their window sit, And see the gay pass by; Yet take their weary work again, Though with a mournful eye.

The rich, they give—they miss it not— A blessing cannot be Like that which rests, thou widowed one, Upon thy gift and thee!