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And well may the children weep before you !

They are weary ere they run;
They have never seen the sunshine, nor the

Which is brighter than the sun.
They know the grief of man, without its

They sink in man's despair, without its

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,
For they mind you of their angels in high


With eyes turned on Deity.
“How long," they say, “how long, O cruel

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 silence curses deeper

Than the strong man in his wrath.” 1843.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.



Sit down, sad soul, and count

The moments flying:
Come,-tell the sweet amount

That 's lost by sighing !
How many smiles?-a score?
Then laugh, and count no more;

For day is dying !

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Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,

And no more measure
The flight of Time, nor weep

The loss of leisure;
But here, by this lone stream,
Lie down with us, and dream

Of starry treasure !


We dream: do thou the same:

We love-forever:
We laugh; yet few we shame,

The gentle, never.
Stay, then, till Sorrow dies;
Then-hope and happy skies
Are thine forever!

Bryan Waller Procter.




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

the sky.


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.

Thomas Moore.


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The moaning and groaning,

The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing

At heart:-ah, that horrible,

Horrible throbbing;


The sickness—the nausea

The pitiless pain-
Have ceased, with the fever

That maddened my brain-
With the fever called “Living”

That burned in my brain.


And oh! of all tortures

That torture the worst
Has abated—the terrible

Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river

Of Passion accurst!-
I have drunk of a water

That quenches all thirst :


Of a water that flows

With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few

Feet under ground-
From a cavern not very far

Down under ground.


And ah! let it never

Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy

And narrow my bed;
For man never slept

In a different bed

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