Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/109

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"The silver is mine, and the gold is mine,—saith the Lord of Hosts." II. 8.

is the gold that glitters in the mine, And whose the silver? Are they not the Lord's! And lo! the cattle on a thousand hills, And the broad earth with all her gushing springs,  (errata) Are they not his who made them? Ye who hold Slight tenantry therein, and call your lands By your own names, and lock your gathered gold From him who in his bleeding Saviour's name Doth ask a part, whose shall those riches be When like the grass-blade from the autumn-frost, You fall away? Point out to me the forms That in your treasure-chambers shall enact Glad mastership, and revel where you toiled, Sleepless and stern? Strange faces are they all. Oh man! whose wrinkling labour is for heirs, Thou knowest not who, thou in thy mouldering bed Unkenned, unchronicled, of them shalt sleep, Nor will they thank thee that thou didst bereave Thy soul of good for them. Now, thou mayest give The famished food, the prisoner liberty, Light to the darkened mind, to the lost soul