The Cry of the Children.

God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather,'
And hold both within his right hand which is strong.
'Our Father!' If He heard us, He would surely
(For they call Him good and mild)

Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely,
'Come and rest with me, my child.'

"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.

And well may the children weep before you!
They are weary ere they run;

They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory
Which is brighter than the sun.

They know the grief of man, without its wisdom;
They sink in man's despair, without its calm;
Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom,
Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm;
Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly

The harvest of its memories cannot reap,—..
Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly.
Let them weep! let them weep!

They look up, with their pale and sunken faces,
And their look is dread to see,

For they mind you of their angels in high places, i

With eyes turned on Deity.

"How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation,

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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 upward, O gold-heaper,
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 [1806-1861]

THE SHADOW-CHILD

Why do the wheels go whirring round,

Mother, mother?

Oh, mother, are they giants bound,
And will they growl forever?
Yes, fiery giants underground,
Daughter, little daughter,
Forever turn the wheels around,

And rumble-grumble ever.

Why do I pick the threads all day,
Mother, mother?

While sunshine children are at play?

And must I work forever?

Yes, shadow-child; the live-long day,

Daughter, little daughter,

Your hands must pick the threads away,

And feel the sunshine never.

Why do the birds sing in the sun,

Mother,

mother?

If all day long I run and run,

Run with the wheels forever?
The birds may sing till day is done,
Daughter, little daughter,

But with the wheels your feet must run-
Run with the wheels forever.

Why do I feel so tired each night,
Mother, mother?

The wheels are always buzzing bright;

Do they grow sleepy never?

Oh, baby thing, so soft and white,
Daughter, little daughter,

The big wheels grind us in their might,
And they will grind forever.

Mother Wept

And is the white thread never spun,

Mother, mother?

And is the white cloth never done,
For you and me done never?

Oh, yes, our thread will all be spun,
Daughter, little daughter,

When we lie down out in the sun,

Oh, shall we laugh and sing and play
Out in the sun forever?

Nay, shadow-child, we'll rest all day,
Daughter, little daughter,

Where green grass grows and roses gay,

There in the sun forever.

Harriet Monroe [1860

MOTHER WEPT

MOTHER wept, and father sighed;

With delight aglow

Cried the lad, "To-morrow," cried,

"To the pit I go."

Up and down the place he sped,—
Greeted old and young;

Far and wide the tidings spread;
Clapt his hands and sung.

Came his cronies; some to gaze
Wrapped in wonder; some

Free with counsel; some with praise:
Some with envy dumb.

"May he," many a gossip cried,

"Be from peril kept."

Father hid his face and sighed,

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Mother turned and wept.

Joseph Skipsey [1852-1903]

DUTY

So nigh is grandeur to our dust,

So near is God to man,

When Duty whispers low, "Thou must,"

The youth replies, "I can."

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882]

LUCY GRAY

OR SOLITUDE

OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see, at break of day,
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor,
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night,You to the town must go;

And take a lantern, Child, to light

Your mother through the snow."

"That, Father, will I gladly do:
'Tis scarcely afternoon,-

The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon!"

At this the Father raised his hook,
And snapped a fagot-brand.
He plied his work; and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Lucy Gray

Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke

Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time:
She wandered up and down:
And many a hill did Lucy climb:
But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.

At daybreak on the hill they stood

That overlooked the moor;

And thence they saw the bridge of wood,

A furlong from their door.

They wept, and, turning homeward, cried,

"In heaven we all shall meet;

When in the snow the mother spied

The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small:
And through the broken hawthorn-hedge,
And by the low stone-wall;

And then an open field they crossed-
The marks were still the same-
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,

Into the middle of the plank;

And further there were none!

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