Hurry by homewards, and fling him alms;
Pitiful women, touched by the psalms,
Bringing back innocence, stoop by the wall
Where he sits at Dives' gate.

What are his thoughts of, stranded there?
While life ebbs and flows by, again and again,
Does the old sad Problem vex his poor brain?
"Why is the world so pleasant and fair,
Why, am I only who did no wrong
Crippled and bent out of human form?
Why are other men tall and strong?
Surely if all men were made to rejoice,
Seeing that we come without will or choice,
It were better to crawl for a day like a worm,
Than to lie like this so long!

"The blind shuffles by with a tap of his staff,
The tired tramp plods to the workhouse ward,-
But he carries his broad back as straight as a lord.
And the blind man can hear his little ones laugh,
While I lie here like a weed on the sand,

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,
And the stars show like lamps on the sweet summer night,
Some chance chord struck with a sudden delight,
Soars aloft with his soul, and brings Paradise near.
And then—for even nature is sometimes kind—
He lies stretched under palms with a harp of gold;
Or is whirled on by coursers as fleet as the wind;
And is no more crippled, nor weak nor bent;
No more painful nor impotent;

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,
Or whatever it be such poor souls desire;
And with this little solace, for God would fain
Make even his measures of joy and pain,

He drones happily on in his quiet nook,

With hands that never tire.

Well, these random guesses must go for nought;
Seeing it is wiser and easier far

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,
An inner voice of silence come.

Stray notes of birds, the hum of bees,
The brook's light gossip on its way,
Voices of children heard at play,
Leaves whispering of a coming breeze.

Oh, look! the sea is fallen asleep,
The sail hangs idle evermore;

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;
Yet yonder fairy fringe of spray

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!
Lay her with a tender hand

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;