Oh! remember the poor when your fortune is sure,
    And acre to acre you join;
  Oh! remember the poor, though but slender your store
    And you ne’er can go gallant and fine. 
  Oh! remember the poor when they cry at your door
    In the raging rain and blast;
  Call them in!  Cheer them up with the bite and the sup,
    Till they leave you their blessing at last.

  The red fox has his lair, and each bird of the air
    With the night settles warm in his nest,
  But the King Who laid down His celestial crown
    For our sakes—­He had nowhere to rest. 
  Oh! the poor were forgot till their pitiful lot
    He bowed Himself to endure;
  If your souls ye would make, for His Heavenly sake,
    Oh! remember, remember the poor.

II.  WELSH POEMS

THE ODES TO THE MONTHS

(After Aneurin, a sixth-century warrior bard)

  Month of Janus, the coom is smoke-fuming;
  Weary the wine-bearer; minstrels far roaming;
  Lean are the kine; the bees never humming;
  Milking-folds void; to the kiln no meat coming;
  Gaunt every steed; no pert sparrows strumming;
  Long the night till the dawn; but a glimpse is the gloaming. 
  Sapient Cynfelyn, this was thy summing;
  “Prudence is Man’s surest guide, by my dooming.”

* * * * *

  Month of Mars; the birds become bolder;
  Wounding the wind upon the cape’s shoulder;
  Serene skies delay till the young crops are older;
  Anger burns on, when grief waxes colder;
  Every man’s mind some dread may unsolder;
  Each bird wins the may that hath long been a scolder;
  Each seed cleaves the clay, though for long months amoulder,
  Yet the dead still must stay in the tomb, their strong holder.

* * * * *

  Month of Augustus—­the beach is a-spray;
  Blithesome the bee and the hive full alway;
  Better work than the bow hath the sickle to-day;
  Fuller the stack than the House of the Play;
  The Churl who cares neither to work nor to pray
  Now why should he cumber the earth with his clay? 
  Justly St. Breda, the sapient, would say
  “As many to evil as good take the way.”

* * * * *

  Month of September—­benign planets shiver;
  Serene round the hamlet are ocean and river;
  Not easy for men and for steeds is endeavour;
  Trees full of fruit, as of arrows the quiver. 
  A Princess was born to us, blessed for ever,
  From slavery’s shackles our land’s freedom-giver. 
  Saith St. Berned the Saint, ripe Wisdom’s mouth ever;
  “In sleep shall God nod, Who hath sworn to deliver?”