The young lambs are bleating in the meadows; They are weeping in the playtime of the others, II. Do you question the young children in the sorrow, The old man may weep for his to-morrow, The old tree is leafless in the forest- Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, III. They look up with their pale and sunken faces, For the man's grief abhorrent, draws and presses "Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary ;" 66 "Our young feet," they say, are very weak! Few paces have we taken, yet are weary— Our grave-rest is very far to seek. Ask the old why they weep, and not the children, And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, 66 IV. 'True," say the young children, "it may happen Little Alice died last year—the grave is shapen We looked into the pit prepared to take her— If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, With your ear down, little Alice never cries! Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, It is good when it happens," say the children, V. Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, Go out, children, from the mine and from the city— But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows, "For oh," say the children, VI. 66 we are weary, And we cannot run or leap If we cared for any meadows, it were merely Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping- Through the coal-dark, underground Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron VII. "For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning, — Their wind comes in our faces, Till our hearts turn, our head, with pulses burning, And the walls turn in their places, Turns the sky in the high window blank and reelingTurns the long light that droppeth down the wall— Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling All are turning, all the day, and we with all.And all day, the iron wheels are droning; And sometimes we could pray 'O ye wheels' (breaking out in a mad moaning), 'Stop! be silent for to-day!'" VIII. Ay, be silent! Let them hear each other breathing Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or reveals Let them prove their inward souls against the notion That they live in you, or under you, O wheels!Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, Grinding life down from its mark; And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark. IX. Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers, So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others, They answer, “Who is God that He should hear us, Is it likely God, with angels singing round him, X. "Two words, indeed, of praying we remember; And at midnight's hour of harm,— Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber, We know no other words, except 'Our Father,' Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, XI. "But, no!" say the children, weeping faster, And they tell us, of His image is the master, Go to!" say the children,-" up in heaven, For God's possible is taught by His world's loving – * A fact rendered pathetically historical by Mr. Horne's report of his commission. The name of the poet of "Orion" and "Cosmo de' Medici" has, however, a change of associations; and comes in time to remind me that we have some noble poetic heat of literature still,- however we may be open to the reproach of being somewhat gelid in our humanity.-E. B. B. |