Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever gave

him,

Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes which closed in death to save

him.

Thus? oh, not thus? no type of earth can image that awaking, Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs round him breaking,

Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted, But felt those Eyes alone, and knew, 'My Saviour! not deserted!'

Deserted! Who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness rested,

Upon the Victim's hidden face no love was manifested?

What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the atoning drops

averted?

What tears have washed them from the soul, that one should be deserted?

Deserted! God could separate from His own essence rather; And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous Son and Father:

Yea, once, Immanuel's orphaned cry His universe hath shakenIt went up single, echoless, 'My God, I am forsaken!'

It went up from the Holy's lips amid His lost creation,
That, of the lost, no son should use those words of desolation!
That earth's worst phrenzies, marring hope, should mar not
hope's fruition,

And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture in a vision.

A CHILD ASLEEP.

HOW he sleepeth, having drunken

Weary childhood's mandragore!

From his pretty eyes have sunken

Pleasures to make room for more:

Sleeping near the withered nosegay which he pulled the day before.

Nosegays! leave them for the waking;

Throw them earthward where they grew ;
Dim are such beside the breaking

Amaranths he looks unto :

Folded eyes see brighter colours than the open ever do.

Vision unto vision calleth

While the young child dreameth on :

Fair, O dreamer, thee befalleth

With the glory thou hast won!

Darker wast thou in the garden yestermorn by summer sun.

We should see the spirits ringing

Round thee, were the clouds away;

'Tis the child-heart draws them, singing
In the silent-seeming clay-

Singing! stars that seem the mutest go in music all the way.

Speak not! he is consecrated;

Breathe no breath across his eyes:

Lifted up and separated

On the hand of God he lies

In a sweetness beyond touching, held in cloistral sanctities.

Could ye bless him, father-mother,

Bless the dimple in his cheek?

Dare ye look at one another

And the benediction speak?

Would ye not break out in weeping and confess yourselves too weak?

He is harmless, ye are sinful;

Ye are troubled, he at ease :

From his slumber, virtue winful

Floweth onward with increase.

Dare not bless him! but be blessèd by his peace, and go in peace.

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 birds are chirping in the nest,
The young fawns are playing with the shadows,
The young flowers are blowing towards the west-
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
They are weeping bitterly!

They are weeping in the play-time of the others,
In the country of the free.

Do you question the young children in the sorrow
Why their tears are falling so?

The old man may weep for his to-morrow
Which is lost in Long Ago;

The old tree is leafless in the forest,
The old year is ending in the frost,
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest,
The old hope is hardest to be lost :

But the young, young children, O my brothers,
Do you ask them why they stand

Weeping sore before the bosom of their mothers,
In our happy Fatherland?

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their looks are sad to see,

For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses
Down the cheeks of infancy;

'Your old earth,' they say, 'is very dreary,
Our young feet,' they say, 'are very weak;
Few paces have we taken, yet are weary-
The grave rest is very far to seek :-

Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children,
For the outside earth is cold,

And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,
And the graves are for the old.

'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:

Was no room for any work in the close clay! 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 or shower,

With your ear down, little Alice never cries;

Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,
For the smile has time for growing in her eyes:
And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in
The shroud by the kirk-chime.

It is good when it happens,' say the children,
'That we die before our time.'

Alas, alas, the 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 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 our coal shadows,
From your pleasures fair and fine!

'For oh,' say the children, '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 reeling,
Turns the long light that drops adown the wall,
Turn 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)
"Stop! be silent for to-day!"'

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!