Alas, the wretched children! they are seeking

Death in life, as best to have!

They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,
With a cerement from the grave.

Go out, children, from the mine and from the city—
Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do-
Pluck you 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,

From your pleasures fair and fine!

"For oh," say the children,

66 we are weary,

And we cannot run or leap

If we cared for any meadows, it were merely

To drop down in them and sleep.

Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping-
We fall upon our faces, trying to go;

And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping,

The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.

For, all day, we drag our burden tiring,

Through the coal-dark, underground

Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron

In the factories, round and round.

"For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning,Their wind comes in our faces,

Till our hearts turn,-our heads, with pulses burning, And the walls turn in their places

Turns the sky in the high window blank and reelingTurns the long light that droppeth down the wallTurn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling

All are turning, all the day, and we with all!And all day, the iron wheels are droning;

And sometimes we could pray,

'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 inward souls against the notion That they live in you, or under you, O wheels!— Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,

As if Fate in each were stark;

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,
That they look to Him and pray—

So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others,
Will bless them another day.

They answer,

"Who is God that He should hear us,

While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred? When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us

Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word!
And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding)
Strangers speaking at the door :

Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him,
Hears our weeping any more?

"Two words, indeed, of praying we remember;

And at midnight's hour of harm,—

‘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, 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,
"He is speechless as a stone;

And they tell us, of His image is the master
Who commands us to work on.

* A fact rendered pathetically historical by Mr. Horne's report of his commission. The name of the poet of "Orion" and "Cosmo de' Medici" has, however, a change of associations; and comes in time to remind me (with other noble instances) that we have some brave poetic heat of literature still,-though open to the reproach, on certain points, of being somewhat gelid in our humanity.

Go to!" say the children,-" Up in Heaven,

Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find! Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelievingWe look up for God, but tears have made us blind." Do ye hear the children weeping and disproving, O my brothers, what ye preach?

For God's possible is taught by His world's loving—And the children doubt of each.

And well may the children weep before you ;
They are weary ere they run;

They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory
Which is brighter than the sun :

They know the grief of men, but not the wisdom;
They sink in the despair, without the calm—
Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom,-
Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm,—
Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly
No dear remembrance keep,—

Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly:
Let them weep! let them weep!