A heav’n-sent wanderer, I come, 
The bird of faithful Hope, 
Your sympathies to call from home 
And give them larger scope. 
Bethink thee of the village poor, — 
Thy plenty bid them share, — 
The shepherds on the wind-swept 
moor, 
The widow’s load of care. 
The snow drifts fast, a keener 
blast 
Forebodes a cruel night; 
With outer cheerlessness contrast 
Your festal warmth and light. 
Bestow your crumbs ; lest haply 
morn, 
Though decked with winter’s 
wreath, 
Unhonoured by my song should 
break, — 
Its minstrel stilled in death. 
Mil 
III! 
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