Sickly children, that whine low To themselves and not their mothers, From mere habit,-never so Hoping help or care from others. Healthy children, with those blue I am listening here in Rome, Angli angeli !" (resumed From the medieval story) Can we smooth down the bright hair, The sweet looks of our own children, While those others, lean and small, Till we take them into pity? "Is it our fault?" you reply, Is asserted by starvation? "All these mouths we cannot feed, And we cannot clothe these bodies." Well, if man's so hard indeed, Let them learn at least what God is ! Little outcasts from life's fold, The grave's hope they may be joined in, By Christ's covenant consoled For our social contract's grinding. If no better can be done, Let us do but this,-endeavour That the sun behind the sun Shine upon them while they shiver ! On the dismal London flags, Through the cruel social juggle, Put a thought beneath their rags To ennoble the heart's struggle. O my sisters! not so much Are we asked for-not a blossom From our children's nosegay, such As we gave it from our bosom,— Not the milk left in their cup, Not the lamp while they are sleeping, Not the little cloak hung up While the coat's in daily keeping, But a place in RAGGED SCHOOLS, O my sisters! children small, Let us take them into pity! A LAY OF THE EARLY ROSE. A ROSE once grew within In her loneness, in her loneness, A white rose delicate On a tall bough and straight: Her pretty gestes did win "For if I wait," said she, For the moss-rose and the musk-rose, "What glory then for me Roses plenty, roses plenty, "Nay, let me in," said she, In my loneness, in my loneness, "For I would lonely stand On a mission, on a mission, "Upon which lifted sign, What worship will be mine! What addressing, what caressing, "A windlike joy will rush Through every tree and bush, Bending softly in affection And spontaneous benediction. "Insects that only may Live in a sunbright ray, To my whiteness, to my whiteness, "And every moth and bee, "Three larks shall leave a cloud To my whiter beauty vowed, Singing gladly all the moontide, Never waiting for the suntide. "Ten nightingales shall flee Their woods for love of me, Singing sadly all the suntide, Never waiting for the moontide. "I ween the very skies Will look down with surprise, "And earth will call her flowers By their curtsies and sweet-smelling, So praying did she win South winds to let her in, But ah,-alas for her! To her praises, to her praises, No tree nor bush was seen The little flies did crawl Along the southern wall, Faintly shifting, faintly shifting Wings scarce long enough for lifting. The lark, too high or low, I ween, did miss her so, The nightingale did please Guess him in the Happy islands, Only the bee, forsooth, The skies looked coldly down Then with drop for drop, at leisure, They began to rain for pleasure. |