Hurry by homewards, and fling him alms; What are his thoughts of, stranded there? "The blind shuffles by with a tap of his staff, With these crooked limbs, paining me night and day Is it true, what they tell of a far-off land, In the sweet old faith which was preached for the poor,— Where none shall be weary or pained any more, Nor change shall enter nor any decay, And the stricken down shall stand?" And perhaps sometimes when the sky is clear, No more hungry, nor weary nor cold,— But of perfect form and mind. Or may be his thoughts are of humbler cast, For hunger and cold are real indeed; And he looks for the hour when his toil shall be past, And he with sufficient for next day's need: Some humble indulgence of food or fire, E Some music-hall ditty, or marvellous book, He drones happily on in his quiet nook, With hands that never tire. Well, these random guesses must go for nought; To weigh to an atom the faintest star, Than to sound the dim depths of a brother's thought. But whenever I hear those poor snatches of song, And see him lie maimed in body and soul, While I am straight and healthy and strong, I seem to redden with a secret shame, That we should so differ who should be the same, Till I hear their insolent chariot wheels roll The millionaires along. WATCH. OH, hark! the languid air is still, The fields and woods seem hushed and dumb But listen, and you shall hear a thrill, Stray notes of birds, the hum of bees, Oh, look! the sea is fallen asleep, Yet refluent from the outer deep, The low wave sobs upon the shore. Silent the dark cave ebbs and fills, Silent the broad weeds wave and sway; Is born of surges vast as hills. Oh, see! the sky is deadly dark, There shines not moon nor any star; But gaze awhile, and you shall mark Some gleam of glory from afar : Some half-hid planet's vagrant ray; Some lightning flash which wakes the world; Night's pirate banner slowly furled ; And, eastward, some faint flush of day. DROWNED. ONLY eighteen winters old! On the delicate, ribbed sea-sand: Stiff and cold; ay, stiff and cold. What she has been, who shall care? Looking on her as she lies With those stony, sightless eyes, And the sea-weed in her hair. Think, O mothers! how the deep All the dreary night did rave; |