« PreviousContinue »
And well may the children weep before you ;
They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory
They know the grief of man, but not the wisdom;
Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly;
They look up, with their pale and sunken faces,
For they mind you of their angels in their places,
"How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation,
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,
And tread onward to your throne amid the mart? Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants,
And your purple shows your path;
But the child's sob curseth deeper in the silence
Than the strong man in his wrath!"
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
METHINKS I love all common things;
Methinks I love the horny hand,
That labours until dusk from dawn; Methinks I love the russet band, Beyond the band of silk or lawn; And, oh! the lovely laughter drawn From peasant lips, when sunny May Leads in some flowery holiday!
What good are fancies fair, that rack
With painful thought the poet's brain?
Alas! they cannot bear us back
Unto happy years again!
But the white rose without stain
Bringeth times and thoughts of flowers,
E'en now, were I but rich, my hand
But I am of the humble crowd;
If thou, sweet Muse, wilt cherish me!
O MARY! at thy window be,
It is the wished, the trysted hour;
That make the miser's treasure poor:
Yestreen when, to the trembling string,
I sat, but neither heard nor saw :
O Mary! canst thou wreck his peace,
The thought o' Mary Morison.
A Psalm of Life.
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST.
TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Art is long, and time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
In the world's broad field of battle,
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Let us, then, be up and doing,