THE CRY OF THE HUMAN.

"THERE is no God," the foolish

saith,

But none, "There is no sorrow;" And nature oft, the cry of faith,

In bitter need will borrow:

Eyes which the preacher could not school,

By wayside graves are raised;
And lips say, God be pitiful,"
That ne'er said, "God be praised."
Be pitiful, O God!

We sit together with the skies,
The steadfast skies, above us:
We look into each other's eyes,

"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, dear God!

We tremble by the harmless bed

Of one loved and departed Our tears drop on the lips that said Last night," Be stronger hearted!" O God, to clasp those fingers close, And yet to feel so lonely! To see a light upon such brows, Which is the daylight only! Be pitiful, O God!

We sit on hills our childhood wist, Woods, hamlets, streams, beholding;

The sun strikes through the farthest mist,

The city's spire to golden. The city's golden spire it was,

When hope and health were strong-
est,

But now it is the churchyard grass
We look upon the longest.
Be pitiful, O God!

And soon all vision waxeth dull
Men whisper, "He is dying!"
We cry no more, "Be pitiful!”

We have no strength for crying; No strength, no need! Then, soul of mine,

Be verily bitter as self-sacrifice, We are no less selfish! If we sleep on rocks

Or roses, sleeping past the hour of

noon,

We're lazy.

[From Aurora Leigh.]

A CHARACTER.

As light November snows to empty nests,

As grass to graves, as moss to mildewed stones,

As July suns to ruins, through the rents,

As ministering spirits to mourners, through a loss,

As Heaven itself to men, through pangs of death

He came uncalled wherever grief had

come.

[From Aurora Leigh.]

PICTURE OF MARIAN ERLE.

SHE was not white nor brown But could look either, like a mist that changed

According to being shone on more or less.

The hair, too, ran its opulence of curls

In doubt 'twixt dark and bright, nor left you clear

To name the color. Too much hair perhaps

(I'll name a fault here) for so small a head,

Which seemed to droop on that side and on this,

As a full-blown rose, uneasy with its weight,

Though not a breath should trouble it. Again,

The dimple in the cheek had better gone

With redder, fuller rounds: and somewhat large

The mouth was, though the milky little teeth

Dissolved it to so infantine a smile!