'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, And the pale weaver, through his windows seen In Spitalfields, looked thrice dispirited. I met a preacher there I knew, and said: "Ill and o'erworked, how fare you in this scene?" - "Bravely!" said he; "for I of late have been Much cheered with thoughts of Christ, the living bread." O human soul! as long as thou canst so Set up a mark of everlasting light, Above the howling senses' ebb and flow, To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam - Not with lost toil thou labourest through the night! Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home.
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