with a faith, and hope, and trust no longer traditional, but of his own, a trust which neither earth nor hell shall shake thenceforth forever. POETICAL ILLUSTRATIONS OF OROTUND QUALITY. THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, — And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows: Do you question the young children in the sorrow, The old man may weep for his to-morrow Which is lost in Long Ago The old tree is leafless in the forest The old year is ending in the frost The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest. But the young, young children, O my brothers, Weeping sore before the bosom of their mothers, 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; "Our young feet," they say, "are very weak! Ask the old why they weep, and not the children, And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, "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 Was no room for any work, in the close clay: From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, Crying, 'Get up, little Alice! it is day.' 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, For the smile has time for growing in her eyes,And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in The shroud, by the kirk-chime! It is good when it happens," say the children, "That we die before our time!" Alas, the wretched children! they are seeking They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, Go out,, children, from the mine and from the city — Like our weeds anear the mine? Leave us quiet in the dark of the cold shadows, "For oh," say the children, "we are weary, If we cared for any meadows, it were merely Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping- The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For, all day, we drag our burden tiring, In the factories, round and round. "For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning,Their wind comes in our faces, Till our hearts turn,- our heads, with pulses burning, Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling— And sometimes we could pray, 'O ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad moaning,) – 'Stop! be silent for to-day!"" Ay! be silent! Let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing Of their tender human youth! Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or revealsLet 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, As if Fate in each were stark; And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark. Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers, So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others, Will bless them another day. They answer, "Who is God that He should hear us, Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him, "Two words, indeed, of praying we remember; And at midnight's hour of harm,— 'Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber, We say softly for a charm. We know no other words, except 'Our Father,' Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, "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 — And well may the children weep before you; They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory They know the grief of men, but not the wisdom, Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly: They look up, with their pale and sunken faces, For you think you see their angels in their places, "How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation, Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart,— Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, And tread onward to your throne amid the mart? Our blood splashes upwards, O our tyrants, And your purple shows your path; But the child's sob curseth deeper in the silence THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. Thomas Hood. With fingers weary and worn, Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work-work, Till the stars shine through the roof! Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save "Work-work-work Till the brain begins to swim; Work-work-work Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Band, and gusset, and seam, "Oh, men, with sisters dear! Oh, men, with mothers and wives! Stitch-stitch-stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt |