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The storm is raging and the drifting snow
Is forming curious ridges on the street,
And still the noisy wild winds loudly blow,
Untolding winter's ghastly winding sheet.


How hard the fate of that poor wandering wight,
Who has to face the cold and bitter wind,
ANd wade through heaps of snow on such a night,
Perhaps knows not where he may shelter find.


On such a night the "Pictou" ploughed the wave;
The flames upshoot, while chilling storms prevail,
All hope is gone, in vain for help they crave,
Not one is saved to tell the tragic tale.


How comfortless must be the needy poor,
Whose homes are destitute of food and fuel,
While angry winds keep howling at their door,
Where heartless men have spoken words as cruel.


Oh! how our hearts with gratitude should glow,
Who have our homes, and all our wants supplied,
And feel no chill from storm-tossed drifting snow,
For every want is more than satisfied.


But while the storm keeps raging at our door,
And while we share earth's gifts of plentiness,
Oh! let us think upon the needy poor
And lend our aid to lessen their distress.


'Tis not enough to say "be clothed, be fed,"
Advice is good, but better far the deed
Of that kind heart that gives a loaf of bread,
To feed the hungry in their time of need.


God asks a loan--dare we refuse to lend
A little of the much which He has given?
If we withhold, then sad shall be our end,
And dark our prospects of a future heaven.