Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/29

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of God! his richest gifts who hold, Sublime dispensers to your brother's need, Can Charity within those breasts grow cold, Where Faith and Hope have sown their holy seed? Hoard ye the stores of Heaven?—Ah, then beware Lest its pure manna turn to bitterness and care.

Stewards of God!—replete with living bread, Shall any famish in your rosy path? Have ye a garment which ye will not spread Around those naked souls in Winter's wrath? Ye see them sink amid Destruction's blast, Unmoved ye hear their cry!—What will ye plead at last?

Ye have that cup of wine which Jesus blest At his last supper with the chosen train; Ye have a book divine, whose high behest 'Go, teach all nations,' sends its thrilling strain Into your secret chamber. Can it be That selfishness enslaves the souls by Christ made free?

Do ye indeed on Time's tempestuous shore Wear the meek armour of the Crucified? Yet stretch no hand, no supplication pour, To save the fainting souls for whom he died? God of all power!—what but thy Spirit's flame Can ope the eyes of those who dream they love thy name?

Where is your heathen brother?—From his grave Near thy own gates, or 'neath a foreign sky,