O'er frenzied feelings, and the mad despair
That all, or nearly all, that stricken district share,
God, in Thy mercy hear our humble prayer,
Teach these bereft ones their great loss to bear—
Learn them to bow 'neath Thy Almighty will;
Be to the fatherless, a Father still—
Soothe in her hour of woe, the widow's heart—
Snatch from her bosom, Pain's relentless dart:
Give peace, Lord, to every tortured breast—
Help Thou the weak, and succour the distress'd.
And now for England: What will England say,
Or rather do, to keep despair away?
Who, that knows England, has a moment's dread
That these lone sufferers shall have daily bread,
And all such help as their sad case demands!
England has tender hearts, and helpful, willing hands;
And as, on startled ears, the direful tidings fall,
One common feeling will pervade them all.
On to the rescue ! England to the fore!
And "Hartley Colliery" rings from shore to shore!
Our Queen! God bless her, 'mid her own vast grief,
Shall listen to her heart, and send relief.
One glorious rivalry: 'tween rich and poor,
Shall drive stern want from every sufferer's door.
As prussic acid acts upon the body so doth pride upon the soul. Avoid both.
