‘ 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, look'd thrice dispirited.
I met a preacher there I knew, and said:
“Ill and o'erwork' d, how fare you in this scene?” —
“Bravely!” said he; “for I of late have been
Much cheer'd 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.