And must be bought, though penury Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er betide. The plum all azure, and the nut all brown, And here each season do those cakes abide, them, Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild; Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy As the innocent heart of a child! Whose honor'd names th' inventive city They are idols of hearts and of households; own, Rend'ring through Britain's isle Salopia's praises known. Admired Salopia! that with venial pride Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambient wave, Famed for her loyal cares in perils tried, Her daughters lovely and her striplings brave: They are angels of God in disguise; His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, His glory still gleams in their eyes. Those truants from home and from heaven, They have made me more manly and mild, And I know now how Jesus could liken Ah! midst the rest, may flowers adorn I ask not a life for the dear ones, his grave, Whose art did first these dulcet cates dis- But that life may have just enough shadow gave, WHEN the lessons and tasks are all ended, And the school for the day is dismiss'd, The little ones gather around me, To bid me good-night and be kiss'd: Oh, the little white arms that encircle My neck in their tender embrace! Oh the smiles that are halos of heaven, Shedding sunshine of love on my face! And when they are gone I sit dreaming Of my childhood, too lovely to last : Of joy that my heart will remember While it wakes to the pulse of the past, Ere the world and its wickedness made me A partner of sorrow and sin; When the glory of God was about me, And the glory of gladness within. All my heart grows as weak as a woman's, And the fountains of feeling will flow, When I think of the paths steep and stony, Where the feet of the dear ones must go; myself; Ah! a seraph may pray for a sinner, But a sinner must pray for himself. The twig is so easily bended, I have banish'd the rule and the rod; I have taught them the goodness of knowledge, They have taught me the goodness of God; My heart is the dungeon of darkness, Where I shut them for breaking a rule; My frown is sufficient correction; My love is the law of the school. I shall leave the old house in the autumn, And the gush of their innocent glee, The group on the green, and the flowers That are brought every morning for me. I shall miss them at morn and at even, Their song in the school and the street; I shall miss the low hum of their voices, And the tread of their delicate feet. When the lessons of life are all ended, And Death says, "The school is dis- May the little ones gather around me, CHARLES M. DICKINSON. THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 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, The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shadows, "Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary, Our young feet," they say, "are very Few paces have we taken, yet are weary- Ask the aged why they weep, and not the For the outside earth is cold, And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, And the graves are for the old. "True," say the children, "it may happen That we die before our time: Little Alice died last year, her grave is shapen Like a snowball, in the rime. We looked into the pit prepared to take her: Was no room for any work in the close clay! The young flowers are blowing toward From the sleep wherein she lieth none will the west But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free. Do you question the young children in Why their tears are falling so? The old tree is leafless in the forest, The old year is ending in the frost, The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, The old hope is hardest to be lost: 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, lull'd and still'd in The shroud by the kirk-chime. It is good when it happens," say the children, "That we die before our time." But the young, young children, O my Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows Like our weeds a-near the mine? Leave us quiet in the dark of the coalshadows, From your pleasures fair and fine! "For oh," say the children, "we are weary, And we cannot run or leap; If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop down in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping, We fall upon our faces, trying to go; And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For all day we drag our burden tiring Through the coal-dark, underground; Or all day we drive the wheels of iron 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, And the walls turn in their places: Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling, Turns the long light that drops adown the wall, Let them prove their living 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. Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers, To look up to Him and pray; So the blessed One who blesseth all the others, Will bless them another day. They answer, "Who is God, that He should hear us, While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirr'd? When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word. And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) Strangers speaking at the door : Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him, Hears our weeping any more? Turn the black flies that crawl along the "Two words, indeed, of praying we re ceiling, All are turning, all the day, and we with all. And all day the iron wheels are droning, And sometimes we could pray, member, And at midnight's hour of harm, Our Father,' looking upward in the cham ber, We say softly for a charm. 'O ye wheels' (breaking out in a mad We know no other words except 'Our And we think that, in some pause of angels' song, Ay, be silent! Let them hear each other God may pluck them with the silence "But no!" say the children, weeping faster, "He is speechless as a stone: And they tell us of His image is the master, Who commands us to work on. Go to!" say the children,-" up in heaven, Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find. Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving : We look up for God, but tears have made us blind." Do you hear the children weeping and disproving, O my brothers, what ye preach? For God's possible is taught by His world's loving, And the children doubt of each. Our blood splashes upward, O goldheaper, And your purple shows your path! But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper Than the strong man in his wrath." ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. (AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND.) These Trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; And well may the children weep before you! This fall of water, that doth make They are weary ere they run; A murmur near the silent Lake; They have never seen the sunshine, nor the This little Bay, a quiet Road glory Which is brighter than the sun. That holds in shelter thy Abode; They know the grief of man, without its Like something fashion'd in a dream; Such Forms as from their covert peep wisdom; They sink in man's despair, without its When earthly cares are laid asleep! calm; Yet, dream and vision as thou art, Are slaves, without the liberty in Christ- I bless thee with a human heart: dom, God shield thee to thy latest years! Are martyrs, by the pang without the I neither know thee nor thy peers; palm : Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly The harvest of its memories cannot reap, And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears. With earnest feeling I shall pray Are orphans of the earthly love and heav- For never saw I mien or face, enly. Let them weep! let them weep! They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their look is dread to see, In which more plainly I could trace For they 'mind you of their angels in high And maidenly shamefacedness: places, With eyes turned on Deity. Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear How long," they say, "how long, O cruel A face with gladness overspread ! nation, Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart,— tion, Soft smiles by human kindness bred! Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpita- With no restraint, but such as springs A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife. What hand but would a garland cull Of the wild sea: and I would have Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace As I do now, the Cabin small, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. MAIDENHOOD. MAIDEN! with the meek, brown eyes, Standing, with reluctant feet, Gazing, with a timid glance, On the brooklet's swift advance, On the river's broad expanse! Deep and still, that gliding stream Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian? Seest thou shadows sailing by, As the dove, with startled eye, Sees the falcon's shadow fly? Hearest thou voices on the shore, That our ears perceive no more, Deafen'd by the cataract's roar? O thou child of many prayers! Like the swell of some sweet tune, Childhood is the bough, where slumber'd Birds and blossoms many-number'd :— Age, that bough with snows encumber'd. Gather, then, each flower that grows, Bear a lily in thy hand; Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal And that smile, like sunshine, dart HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. |