The Cry of the Children 'Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber, We say softly for a charm. We know no other words except, 'Our Father,' And we think that, in some pause of angels' song, 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, And they tell us, of His image is the master 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 un believing : We look up for God, but tears have made Do you hear the children weeping and dis- O my brothers, what ye preach? For God's possible is taught by His world's loving, And the children doubt of each. 124 136 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 They sink in man's despair, without its Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, The harvest of its memories cannot reap,Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly. Let them weep! let them weep! 148 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, With eyes turned on Deity. "How long," they say, "how long, O cruel Will you stand, to move the world, on a Stifle down with a mailèd heel its palpitation, the mart? Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper, 1843. 160 1832. SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL SIT down, sad soul, and count Lie down, sad soul, and sleep, But here, by this lone stream, We dream: do thou the same: We laugh; yet few we shame, Stay, then, till Sorrow dies; Then-hope and happy skies Are thine forever! Bryan Waller Procter. 14 21 AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT AT the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air, To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky. Then I sing the wild song 't was once such pleasure to hear! When our voices commingling, breathed, like one on the ear; And, as Echo far off through the vale my I think, O my love! 't is thy voice from the Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. 10 1813. Thomas Moore. FOR ANNIE THANK Heaven! the crisis- Is over at last And the fever called "Living" Sadly, I know I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I lie at full lengthBut no matter!-I feel I am better at length. And I rest so composedly, Now, in my bed, That any beholder Might fancy me dead Might start at beholding me, Thinking me dead. The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing 6 12 18 |