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The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;
The young birds are chirping in the nest;
The young fawns are playing with the shadows;
The young flowers are blowing toward 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 the sorrow, Why their tears are falling so?

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 frostThe old wound, if stricken, is the sorestThe old hope is hardest to be lost: But the young, young children, O my brothers, Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, In our happy Fatherland?


They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their looks are sad to see,

For the man's grief abhorrent, draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy


"Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary;"
"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,
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 young children, "it may happen That we die before our time.

Little Alice died last year-the 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:
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, alas, the children! they are seeking
Death in life, as best to have!

They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,
With a cerement from the grave.

Go out, children, from the mine and from the city—
Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do-
Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty-
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!


But they answer,


"Are your cowslips of the meadows Like our weeds anear the mine?

Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows,
From your pleasures fair and fine!

For oh," say the children,


66 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 head, 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 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!'"



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 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.


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 stirred?
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?


"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,'
And we think that, in some pause of angel's 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, "He is speechless as a stone;

Go to!"

And they tell us, of His image is the master,
Who commands us to work on.
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.

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* 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.

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