 | Women must weep |  |
100
THE CHILDREN.
The children and the children's woes,
I hear them in the London night;
The shadow of their pain and fright,
From inner pangs and outer foes,
With icy wants like Arctic floes,
Casts over all a bitter blight.
Frost-bitten toes,
And cruel noes,
These are the portion of their plight,
The lot which should be sweetly bright,
But is a life of dying throes,
A cloud without one ray of light.
I hear them in the London night;
The shadow of their pain and fright,
From inner pangs and outer foes,
With icy wants like Arctic floes,
Casts over all a bitter blight.
Frost-bitten toes,
And cruel noes,
These are the portion of their plight,
The lot which should be sweetly bright,
But is a life of dying throes,
A cloud without one ray of light.
I long to hear those voices chatter,
In baby-talk we know so well,
In foolish tales they love to tell—
To hear their pretty footsteps patter,
And see them fairer grow and fatter,
As happy as a marriage-bell.
Ah, fill the platter,
Nor idly scatter
The waste that were a golden spell,
To calm the tempest where they dwell;
Though now the waves of trouble batter,
And toss them on their stormy swell.
In baby-talk we know so well,
In foolish tales they love to tell—
To hear their pretty footsteps patter,
And see them fairer grow and fatter,
As happy as a marriage-bell.
Ah, fill the platter,
Nor idly scatter
The waste that were a golden spell,
To calm the tempest where they dwell;
Though now the waves of trouble batter,
And toss them on their stormy swell.
The children, and the children's cries,
I hear them through the dreary day,
Weeping along their mournful way,
And chafing at the slavish ties,
The dungeon-wall that round them lies,
As from their blasted birth it lay.
O sunny skies,
And hope that flies,
For those who sorely lack them stay,
And on their helpless struggling play,
That drudges its short hour and dies,
As if to make but cheaper clay.
I hear them through the dreary day,
Weeping along their mournful way,
And chafing at the slavish ties,
The dungeon-wall that round them lies,
As from their blasted birth it lay.
O sunny skies,
And hope that flies,
For those who sorely lack them stay,
And on their helpless struggling play,
That drudges its short hour and dies,
As if to make but cheaper clay.
101
I want to see the roses growing
On those young faces, sere and sad,
That never healthy colour had,
And never felt the warm blood glowing,
Or through their veins the summer flowing,
Which shines alike for good and bad.
But care keeps mowing
Buds that were blowing
On radiant cheeks of lass and lad,
If hate to hunger did not add—
And if they were not always owing,
Or hunted till the mind goes mad.
On those young faces, sere and sad,
That never healthy colour had,
And never felt the warm blood glowing,
Or through their veins the summer flowing,
Which shines alike for good and bad.
But care keeps mowing
Buds that were blowing
On radiant cheeks of lass and lad,
If hate to hunger did not add—
And if they were not always owing,
Or hunted till the mind goes mad.
| Women must weep | |