The Cry of the Children God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, "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. For God's possible is taught by His world's loving, And well may the children weep before you! They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory They know the grief of man, without its wisdom; The harvest of its memories cannot reap,- They look up, with their pale and sunken faces, For they mind you of their angels in high places, "How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation, 273 Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart,— Stifle down with a mailèd heel its palpitation, 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 in the silence curses deeper Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861) LUCY GRAY OR SOLITUDE OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray: No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; The sweetest thing that ever grew You yet may spy the fawn at play, "To-night will be a stormy night, You to the town must go; And take a lantern, Child, to light "That, Father, will I gladly do: At this the Father raised his hook, He plied his work; -and Lucy took Lucy Gray Not blither is the mountain roe: Her feet disperse the powdery snow, The storm came on before its time: The wretched parents all that night At daybreak on the hill they stood And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. They wept, and, turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet; When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Then downwards from the steep hill's edge And then an open field they crossed— They followed from the snowy bank Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none! 275 -Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. William Wordsworth (1770-1850) ALICE FELL OR POVERTY THE post-boy drove with fierce career, For threatening clouds the moon had drowned; When, as we hurried on, my ear Was smitten with a startling sound. As if the wind blew many ways, I heard the sound,—and more and more; At length I to the boy called out; The boy then smacked his whip, and fast But, hearing soon upon the blast The cry, I bade him halt again. Forthwith alighting on the ground, "Whence comes," said I, "this piteous moan?" And there a little Girl I found, Sitting behind the chaise, alone. Alice Fell "My cloak!" no other word she spake, But loud and bitterly she wept, As if her innocent heart would break; And down from off her seat she leapt. 277 "What ails you, child?" She sobbed, "Look here!" I saw it in the wheel entangled, A weather-beaten rag as e'er From any garden scarecrow dangled. There, twisted between nave and spoke, "And whither are you going, child, To-night along these lonesome ways?" "To Durham," answered she, half wild"Then come with me into the chaise." Insensible to all relief, Sat the poor girl, and forth did send Sob after sob, as if her grief Could never, never have an end. "My child, in Durham do you dwell?" "And I to Durham, Sir, belong." The chaise drove on; our journey's end |