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
toward
the
west—-
But
the
young,
young
children,
O
my
brothers,
They
are
weeping
bitterly!—-
They
are
weeping
in
the
playtime
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
bosoms
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
grief
abhorrent,
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
wearyÑ
Our
grave-rest
is
very
far
to
seek.
Ask
the
old
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
young
children,
"it
may
happen
That
we
die
before
our
time.
Little
Alice
died
last
year—-the
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
and
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
the
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
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
droppeth
down
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!
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,
os
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,
"Who
is
God
that
He
should
hear
us,
White
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.
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.
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,
but
not
the
wisdom;
They
sink
in
man's
despair,
without
its
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!
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
meant
for
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
our
tyrants,
And
your
purple
shows
your
path;
But
the
child's
sob
curseth
deeper
in
the
silence
Than
the
strong
man
in
his
wrath!"
