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 heads, 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 wreath

ing

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, "Who is God that He should hear us,
While the rushing of the iron wheel 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.

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 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

The harvest of its memories cannot reap,

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 high 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 in the silence curses deeper
Than the strong man in his wrath."

THE PEOPLE'S PETITION

W. M. W. CALL

THE landlords, who were naturally interested to secure high prices for their crops, had induced Parliament to pass a corn law (1815) imposing heavy taxes on all grains imported into the country. This prevented foreigners from sending their grain to England, and bread, since it must be made of English wheat, was very dear. Workingmen found it difficult to buy sufficient food for themselves and their families. It was a grievance most keenly felt by the people of the towns who had no garden-land. Much was said and written against the corn law, but no argument could induce the government to abandon this wicked tax until 1846. Then the potato crop failed, and the Irish peasants, deprived of their staple food, began to die of starvation. The corn law was speedily repealed, and it has since been the policy of Great Britain to lay import duties only upon luxuries.

O lords! O rulers of the nation!

O softly cloth'd! O richly fed!
O men of wealth and noble station!
Give us our daily bread.

For you we are content to toil,
For you our blood like rain is shed;
Then, lords and rulers of the soil,
Give us our daily bread.

Your silken robes, with endless care,
Still weave we; still uncloth'd, unfed,
We make the raiment that ye wear:
Give us our daily bread.

In the red forge-light do we stand,
We early leave-late seek our bed,
Tempering the steel for your right hand :
Give us our daily bread.

We sow your fields, ye reap the fruit;
We live in misery and in dread;

Hear but our prayer, and we are mute:
Give us our daily bread.

Throughout old England's pleasant fields
There is no spot where we may tread,
No house to us sweet shelter yields:
Give us our daily bread.

Fathers are we; we see our sons,
We see our fair young daughters, dead;