Henry Ellison (1811–1880)

O MUSE, thy nourishment, which unto some

Is but as manna in the wilderness,

Found but in seasons of their strange distress

And sorrows, which unseal lips elsewhile dumb,

And make the waters in dry places come,—

The heart’s Castalian springs!—to me is less

Than this, yet more;—the daily bread I bless,

And live on; household bread, and made at home!

And if, with no profane comparison,

Reader, I break and offer it to thee,

’T is as a sacrament, a sublime one,

The sacrament of Man’s Humanity!

Of which partaking, I would have thee none

But as thy Brethren view, whate’er they be.