ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
XII.
And well may the children weep before you ;
They are weary ere they run;
They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory
Which is brighter than the sun :
They know the grief of man, but not the wisdom;
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
No dear remembrance keep,-
Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly;
Let them weep! let them weep!
XIII.
They look up, with their pale and sunken faces,
And their look is dread to see,
For they mind you of their angels in their places,
With eyes meant for Deity;-
"How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation,
Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart,— Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,
And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?
Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants,
And your purple shows your path ;
But the child's sob curseth deeper in the silence
Than the strong man in his wrath!"
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
METHINKS I love all common things;
The common air, the common flower;
The dear kind common thought, that springs
From hearts that have no other dower,
No other wealth, no other power,
Save love; and will not that repay
For all else fortune tears away?
Methinks I love the horny hand,
That labours until dusk from dawn; Methinks I love the russet band,
Beyond the band of silk or lawn; And, oh! the lovely laughter drawn From peasant lips, when sunny May Leads in some flowery holiday!
What good are fancies fair, that rack
With painful thought the poet's brain?
Alas! they cannot bear us back
Unto happy years again!
But the white rose without stain
Bringeth times and thoughts of flowers,
When youth was bounteous as the hours!
E'en now, were I but rich, my hand
Should open like a vernal cloud,
When 't casts its beauty on a land
In music sweet but never loud:
But I am of the humble crowd;
And thus am I content to be,
If thou, sweet Muse, wilt cherish me!
O MARY! at thy window be,
It is the wished, the trysted hour;
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor:
How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison!
Yestreen when, to the trembling string,
The dance gaed through the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sighed, and said, amang them a',
"Ye are na Mary Morison."
O Mary! canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown:
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST.
TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle !
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.
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