Tell law it is contention. Tell fortune of her blindness, And if they will reply, Tell arts they have no soundness, Tell schools they want profoundness, Tell faith it's fled the city, So when thou hast, as I Deserves no less than stabbing; Yet stab at thee who will, THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. [Mrs. Browning wrote and published the greater portion of her poetry while she was yet Elizabeth Barrett; she married Mr. Browning, the poet, in 1846, All her works evince intellectual power of the highest order, and they suffer nothing by comparison with the sublimest efforts of masculine genius: she combines the philosophy of Tennyson with the grace of Shelley and the force of Milton. Her principal works are, "Poems," two vols., 1844; "The Drama of Exile;" "The Vision of Poets;" "Lady Geraldine's Courtship;" "Casa Guidi Windows," written in Florence, 1848; "Aurora Leigh," 1856, a novel in blank verse; besides numerous contributions to the periodicals. Messrs Chapman and Hall publish her works in a collected form. She died in 1861.] Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,- The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young fawns are playing with the shadows, They are weeping in the playtime of the others, Do you question the young children in their sorrow, The old man may weep for his to-morrow The old tree is leafless in the forest- But the young, young children, O my brothers, Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, They look up with their pale and sunken faces, For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses 66 "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 aged why they weep, and not the children, And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, "True," say the children, "it may happen Little Alice died last year-the grave is shapen We looked into the pit prepared to take her- If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in It is good when it happens," say the children, Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, Go out, children, from the mine and from the city- Like our weeds anear the mine? Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal shadows, "For oh," say the children, 66 we are weary, And we cannot run or leap If we cared for any meadows, it were merely Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping- Through the coal-dark underground- "For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning, . Their wind comes in our faces, Till our hearts turn,-our head, with pulses burning, Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling- "O ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad moaning), Ay! be silent! Let them hear each other breathing Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or reveals- 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, So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others, They answer, "Who is God that He should hear us, Is it likely God, with angels singing round him, "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 othe vords, 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; 66 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. For God's possible is taught by His world's loving L And well may the children weep before you! They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory They know the grief of man, without his wisdom; The blessing of its memory cannot keep,- 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, 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 curses deeper in the silence (By permission of Messrs. Chapman and Hall.) THE DESERTED VILLAGE. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. [Oliver Goldsmith, the son of a poor curate, and the sixth of a family of nine children, was born at Pallas, County of Longford, in Ireland, 1731. He made the tour of Europe on foot, and often subsisted on the bounty of "The peasants, whom he conciliated by performing to them on his flute. Traveller" was the result of this tour, and by its publication in 1765, he first emerged from obscurity. "The Vicar of Wakefield " appeared in the following year. In 1767 his comedy of "The Good-natured Man was produced; his Roman History," "The Deserted Village," and still popular comedy "She Stoops to Conquer," followed, in 1768, 1770, and 1773. At the time of his death, 1774, he could command his own terms from the booksellers, but he was extravagant and died in debt. He was buried in the Temple, and a monument was erected to his memory in Westminster Abbey.] SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain. And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed; Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,. Seats of my youth, when every sport could please; |