Draw face to face, front line to line, Then kill, curse on, by that same sign, Clay, clay, and spirit, spirit. Be pitiful, O God! IV. The plague runs festering through the town,- And corpses, jostled 'neath the moon, Be pitiful, O God! V. The plague of gold strikes far and near,- This purple chimar which we wear, Makes madder than the centaur's. Our thoughts grow blank, our words grow strange; We cheer the pale gold-diggers Each soul is worth so much on 'Change, And marked, like sheep, with figures. Be pitiful, O God! VI. The curse of gold, upon the land, The lack of bread enforces The rail-cars snort from strand to strand, The poor die mute-with starving gaze On corn-ships in the offing. Be pitiful, O God! VII. We meet together at the feast To private mirth betake us— God's seraphs! do your voices sound Be pitiful, O God! VIII. We sit together, with the skies, "And how long will you love us?"The eyes grow dim with prophecy, The voices, low and breathless "Till death us part!"-O words, to be Our best for love the deathless! Be pitiful, O God! IX. We tremble by the harmless bed To see a light on dearest brows, Be pitiful, O God! X. The happy children come to us, They ask us-Was it thus, and thus, When we were in their places?——— We cannot speak : -we see anew The hills we used to live in; And feel our mother's smile press through The kisses she is giving. Be pitiful, O God! XI. We pray together at the kirk, The corpse is calm below our knee- Be pitiful, O God! XII. We leave the communing of men, Are we so brave?—The sea and sky And, glassed therein, our spirits high Be pitiful, O God! XIII. We sit on hills our childhood wist, The city's golden spire it was, When hope and health were strongest, But now it is the churchyard grass, We look upon the longest. Be pitiful, O God! XIV. And soon all vision waxeth dull- No strength, no need! Then, Soul of mine, The Son adjures the Father BE PITIFUL, O GOD! A PORTRAIT. "One name is Elizabeth."-BEN JONSON. I WILL paint her as I see her. Ten times have the lilies blown, Since she looked upon the sun. And her face is lily clear- Oval cheeks, encoloured faintly, Which a trail of golden hair Keeps from fading off to air : And a forehead fair and saintly, Which two blue eyes undershine, Like meek prayers before a shrine. Face and figure of a child,— Though too calm, you think, and tender, For the childhood you would lend her. Yet child-simple, undefiled, Frank, obedient, waiting still On the turnings of your will. Moving light, as all young thingsAs young birds, or early wheat When the wind blows over it. Only free from flutterings Of loud mirth that scorneth measure Taking love for her chief pleasure. Choosing pleasures (for the rest) Which come softly-just as she, When she nestles at your knee. Quiet talk she liketh best, In a bower of gentle looks,— Watering flowers, or reading books. And her voice, it murmurs lowly, As a silver stream may run, Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. And her smile, it seems half holy, As if drawn from thoughts more far Than our common jestings are. And if any poet knew her, He would sing of her with falls He would paint her unaware FACE to face in my chamber, my silent chamber, I saw her! thee fast, As the angels of resurrection shall do it at the last. "My cup is blood-red With my sin," she said, "And I pour it out to the bitter lees, As if the angels of judgment stood over me strong at the last, Or as thou wert as these!" II. When God smote His hands together, and struck out thy soul as a spark, Into the organised glory of things, from deeps of the dark,Say, didst thou shine, didst thou burn, didst thou honour the power in the form, As the star does at night, or the fire-fly, or even the little groundworm ? "I have sinned," she said, "For my seed-light shed Has smouldered away from His first decrees! The cypress praiseth the fire-fly, the ground-leaf praiseth the worm: I am viler than these!" |