We cheer the pale gold-diggers, Each soul is worth so much on 'Change, And marked, like sheep, with figures. VI. Be pitiful, O God! The curse of gold upon the land The lack of bread enforces; The rail-cars snort from strand to strand, The poor die mute, with starving gaze On corn-ships in the offing. VII. Be pitiful, O God! We meet together at the feast, To private mirth betake us; God's seraphs, do your voices sound VIII. Be pitiful, O God! We sit together, with the skies, The steadfast skies, above us, We look into each other's eyes, 'And how long will you love us?' The eyes grow dim with prophecy, The voices, low and breathless,— 'Till death us part!'-O words, to be Our best, for love the deathless! Be pitiful, O God! IX. We tremble by the harmless bed Our tears drop on the lips that said To see a light upon such brows, X. Be pitiful, O God! The happy children come to us, And look up in our faces; They ask us-Was it thus, and thus, When we were in their places ?'— We cannot speak ;—we see anew And feel our mother's smile press through The kisses she is giving. Be pitiful, O God! XI. We pray together at the kirk XII. Be pitiful, O God! We leave the communing of men, The murmur of the passions, And live alone, to live again With endless generations: Are we so brave ?—The sea and sky And, glassed therein, our spirits high Recoil from their own terrors. Be pitiful, O God! XIII. We sit on hills our childhood wist, Woods, hamlets, streams, beholding: The sun strikes through the farthest mist The city's spire to golden: The city's golden spire it was, When hope and health were strongest, But now it is the churchyard grass We look upon the longest. Be pitiful, O God! XIV. And soon all vision waxeth dull; We have no strength for crying: No strength, no need. Then, soul of mine, Look up and triumph rather Lo, in the depth of God's Divine, The Son adjures the Father, BE PITIFUL, O GOD! A PORTRAIT. 'One name is Elizabeth.'-BEN JONSON. I WILL paint her as I see her. And her face is lily-clear, Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty Oval cheeks encoloured faintly, And a forehead fair and saintly, Face and figure of a child, Though too calm, you think, and tender, For the childhood you would lend her. |