« PreviousContinue »
And well may the children weep before you !
They are weary ere they run;
calm; Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom,
Are Martyrs, by the pang without the palm: Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly
The harvest of its memories cannot reap,Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenıy.
Let them weep! let them weep!
They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their look is dread to see,
With eyes turned on Deity.
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 silence curses deeper
Than the strong man in his wrath.” 1843.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL
Sit down, sad soul, and count
The moments flying:
That 's lost by sighing !
For day is dying !
Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,
And no more measure
The loss of leisure;
Of starry treasure !
We dream: do thou the same:
The gentle, never.
Bryan Waller Procter.
AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT
At the mid hour of night, when stars are
weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone
warm in thine eye; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from
the regions of air, To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt
come to me there, And tell me our love is remember'd, even in
Then I sing the wild song 't was once such
pleasure to hear! When our voices commingling, breathed, like
one on the ear; And, as Echo far off through the vale my
sad orison rolls, I think, O my love! 't is thy voice from the
Kingdom of Souls, Faintly answering still the notes that once were
so dear. 1813.
At heart:-ah, that horrible,
The sickness—the nausea
The pitiless pain-
That maddened my brain-
That burned in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Torture of thirst
Of Passion accurst!-
That quenches all thirst :
Of a water that flows
With a lullaby sound,
Feet under ground-
Down under ground.
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
And narrow my bed;
In a different bed