_From a very old work, "Noble Numbers."_
Is this a feast to keep,
The larder leane,
And clean,
From fat of veales and sheep?
Is it to quit the dish
Of flesh yet still
To fill
The platter high with _fish_?
Is it to fast an _hour_,
Or, ragged to go
Or show
A downcast look or snore?
No, 'tis a fast to dole
Thy sheaf of wheat
And meat
Unto the hungry soul.
It is to fast from strife,
From old debate
And hate;
To circumcise thy life.
To show a heart grief rent,
To _starve_ thy sin,
Not bin;
And _that's to keep_ thy Lent.
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