The Cry of the Children 269 THE MITHERLESS BAIRN WHEN a' other bairnies are hushed to their hame The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed; Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth, O, speak him na harshly,-he trembles the while, THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young flowers are blowing toward the west— But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, Do you question the young children in the sorrow, The old tree is leafless in the forest, The old year is ending in the frost, The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, But the young, young children, O my brothers, Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, They look up with their pale and sunken faces, For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses "Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary; Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, "True," say the children, "it may happen That we die before our time: Little Alice died last year-her grave is shapen Like a snowball, in the rime. We looked into the pit prepared to take her: The Cry of the Children From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, Crying, 'Get up, little Alice! it is day.' If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, With your ear down, little Alice never cries; 271 Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, It is good when it happens," say the children, Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, Go out, children, from the mine and from the city, Pluck your handfuls of the meadow cowslips pretty; Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through! But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows Like our weeds anear the mine? Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows, "For oh," say the children, "we are weary, If we cared for any meadows, it were merely Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping, And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, For, all day, we drag our burden tiring, Through the coal-dark, underground; "For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning; Till our hearts turn, our heads, with pulses burning, Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling, 'O ye wheels, (breaking out in a mad moaning) Ay, be silent! Let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth! Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing Of their tender human youth! Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or reveals: Let them prove their living souls against the notion Grinding life down from its mark; And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark. Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers, So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others, Will bless them another day. They answer, Who is God that He should hear us, Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word! Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him, "Two words, indeed, of praying we remember, 'Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber, We say softly for a charm. We know no other words except 'Our Father,' And we think that, in some pause of angels' song, The Cry of the Children God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, And hold both within his right hand which is strong. 'Our Father!' If He heard us, He would surely (For they call Him good and mild) Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, 'Come and rest with me, my child.' "But no!" say the children, weeping faster, And they tell us, of His image is the master Go to!" say the children,-"Up in Heaven, Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find. For God's possible is taught by His world's loving, And well may the children weep before you! They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory They know the grief of man, without its wisdom; The harvest of its memories cannot reap,- They look up, with their pale and sunken faces, For they mind you of their angels in high places, "How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation, 273 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? |