See how his eyes in pity's tenderness do rest Where sin hath fixed its mark- - the mark of passion's zest. No smile of grieved condoling - but a pardon full gives he, Though the great heart bleeds because of that the shadowed eyes did see. Down future years those eyes go travelling pained, distressed, The while a prayer for mercy's kindness is addressed The Father's ear. That was the sacrifice of Christ, To see, to know the future and the past To hear the voice of martyr loudly shrieking; To see the crimson blood go flowing, Of these and all earth's sorrows always knowing. AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE BY ALICE CARY Oh, good painter, tell me true, Has your hand the cunning to draw Woods and corn fields, a little brown, The picture must not be over-bright,― Yet all in the golden and gracious light Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down. Alway and alway, night and morn, Woods upon woods, with field of corn Lying between them, not quite sere, Biting shorter the short green grass, Perhaps you may have seen, some day, Listen closer. When you have done With woods and corn fields and grazing herds, A lady, the loveliest ever the sun Looked down upon you must paint for me: Oh, if I only could make you see The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, The woman's soul, and the angel's face I need not speak these foolish words: That all the rest may be thrown away. Two little urchins at her knee You must paint, sir: one like me, The other with a clearer brow, And the light of his adventurous eyes At ten years old he went to sea, God knoweth if he be living now, - To bring us news, and she never came back. With my great-hearted brother on her deck: The time we stood at our mother's knee: That beauteous head, if it did go down, Carried sunshine into the sea! Out in the fields one summer night We were together, half afraid Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade Of the high hills stretching so still and far, Loitering till after the low little light The first half-hour, the great yellow star, Propped and held in its place in the skies By the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree, Which close in the edge of our flax field grew,Dead at the top,- just one branch full Of leaves, notched round, lined with wool, From which it tenderly shook the dew Over our heads, when we came to play In its hand-breadth of shadow, day after day. Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs, The other, a bird, held fast by the legs, Not so big as a straw of wheat: The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat, But cried and cried, till we held her bill, So slim and shining, to keep her still. At last we stood at our mother's knee. Of the urchin that is likest me: I think 't was solely mine, indeed: But that's no matter,― paint it so; -- The eyes of our mother -(take good heed) Looking not on the nestful of eggs, Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs, A sharp blade struck through it. You sir, know That you on the canvas are to repeat Woods and corn fields and mulberry-tree, The mother, the lads, with their bird, at her knee: But, oh, that look of reproachful woe! High as the heavens your name I'll shout, PICTURES OF MEMORY BY ALICE CARY Among the beautiful pictures Is one of a dim old forest, That seemeth best of all; Dark with the mistletoe; Not for the violets golden That sprinkle the vale below; Not for the milk-white lilies That lean from the fragrant ledge, |