THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LIX, Issue 18267, 7 December 1922, Page 10

THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN.

What do we live for if not to make life less difficult for each other. —George Eliot.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, with exquisite tenderness of heart towards little children, wrote the following lines on behalf of those little slaves who were made to work in coal mines in England, our England, years ago now.

But a3 England to-dt.y is ashamed of tho England of yesterday, with regard to tho lot of those little children who were "yoked and chained to tubs of coal or made to crawl on their hands aud knees to haul the coal along low ways, which the owners were too mean to en. iarge," so .England, yes, car England, will one day, ero long, bo ashamed oi the little drink slave* of her Empire— those little "Slaves, without tho liberty of Christdom."

How can we, how dare wo "Let them weep! Let them weep!" Tho " coal shadows" have gone for good—aye, but tho drink shadows remain. Don't let tlie* little children of our land say to us, " How long," they say, "bow 10r.g,,J3 cruel nation V" GfhJS them their liberty by voting Pro. hibition.

THE CRY OP THE CHILDREN, Do ye hear the children ■weeping, O my brothers. Ere tho sorrow comes with yeaTS? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers— And that cannot atoD their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows: » The young birds are chirping in the nest; The young fawns aro playing with th« shadows; The young flower? are blowing toward the west— But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly!—. They are weeping in the piaytime of tho others, In the country of the free. Do you question the young children in tie!*

soTrow 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 frojt — The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest—. The old hope is hardest to be lost; But the young, young children, 0 my brothers. Do you :isk them why they stand, Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers. In our happy fatherland?

Alas, the wretched children! They are seeking Death in life, a3 best to have! They are bindin? up their hearts away from breaking, With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the oity— Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do— Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslip* pretty— Laugh aloud, to v«el your fingers let them through! But they answer, " Are your cowslips of the meadows Like out weeds anear the mine? Leave us quiet in the dark of the coalshadows, From your pleasures fair and fine."

Now tell the poor young children. O my brothers, Tha'; they look 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 ((or the wheels in their resounding) Strangers speaking at the door; Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him, Hears our weeping any more?"

And well may the children wesp before you; They are weary ere they vun; Ibey have never seen thu sunshins, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun: 1 hey know the grief of men, but not the wisdom; They sink in the despair, without tht calm— Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom— Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm— Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly JNo dear remembrance keep— Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly: Let them weep! Let t.aera weep! They look up, with their pde and sunken faces. And their look is dread to see, tor you think you see the angels in their places, With eyes meant for Deity; How lone," they say, " how long, 0 cruel nation, Will you stand, to move the world, on a cmld's heart, Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation. And tread onward to your throne amid the Bmart? Our blood splashes upward, 0 our tyrants, And your purple shows your pa':h: iJut tne child's S oo curseth deeper in tho sil< nee Than the strong man in his wrath 1" —Inserted by a Lover of Children.