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."

66

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 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 head, 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 the 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!

Let them feel that this cold metallic motion

Is not all the life God fashions or reveals-
Let them prove their living souls against the notion
That they live in you, or under you, O wheels!-
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,

Grinding life down from its mark;

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,
To look up to Him and pray-

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

They answer,

66

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 angel's 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.

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 unbelieving
We look up for God, but tears have made us blind.”
Do you 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.

L

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 man, without his wisdom;
They sink in man's despair, without his calm-
Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom,-
Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm,-
Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly

The blessing of its memory cannot keep,-
Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly:
Let them weep! let them weep!

They look up, with their pale and sunken faces,
And their look is dread to see,

For they mind you of their angels in their places,
With eyes turned on Deity ;-

"How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation,
Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart,—
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,

And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?
Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper,

And your purple shows your path!

But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence
Than the strong man in his wrath!"

(By permission of Messrs. Chapman and Hall.)

11.-THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

"The

[Oliver Goldsmith, the son of a poor curate, and the sixth of a family of nine children, was born at Pallas, County of Longford, in Ireland, 1731. He made the tour of Europe on foot, and often subsisted on the bounty of peasants, whom he conciliated by performing to them on his flute. Traveller" was the result of this tour, and by its publication in 1765, he first emerged from obscurity. "The Vicar of Wakefield" appeared in the following year. In 1767 his comedy of "The Good-natured Man" was produced; his "Roman History,' ""The Deserted Village," and still popular comedy "She Stoops to Conquer," followed, in 1768, 1770, and 1773. At the time of his death, 1774, he could command his own terms from the booksellers, but he was extravagant and died in debt. He was buried in the Temple, and a monument was erected to his memory in Westminster Abbey.]

SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,

Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain.
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,

And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed;

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please;

How often have I loitered o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm;
The never-failing brook, the busy mill;

The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill;
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age, and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blessed the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up

their sports beneath the spreading tree :
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
And sleights of art, and feats of strength went round.
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks
These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please.

reprove

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,

Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
There as I passed, with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came softened from below;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school;
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year.
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour,
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train;
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain.
The long remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings leaned to virtue's side
But, in his duty prompt at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all.
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies;
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul!
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Ev'n children followed with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,
The village master taught his little school.