East London

'Twas August, and the fierce sun overheadSmote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green,And the pale weaver, through his windows seenIn 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 beenMuch cheered with thoughts of Christ, the living bread."

O human soul! as long as thou canst soSet 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 laborest through the night!Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home.