The living in their houses,

And in their graves, the dead! And the waters of their rivers,

And their wine, and oil, and bread!

There is a greater army,

That besets us round with strife,

A starving, numberless army,

At all the gates of life.

The poverty-stricken millions

Who challenge our wine and bread,

And impeach us all as traitors.

Both the living and the dead.

And whenever I sit at the banquet, Where the feast and song are high, Amid the mirth and the music

I can hear that fearful cry.

And hollow and haggard faces
Look into the lighted hall,

And wasted hands are extended

To catch the crumbs that fall.

For within there is light and plenty,

And odours fill the air;

But without there is cold and darkness, And hunger and despair.

And there in the camp of famine,
In wind and cold and rain,

Christ, the great Lord of the army,
Lies dead upon the plain !

Far

THE BROOK AND THE WAVE.

HE brooklet came from the mountain,
As sang the bard of old,
Running with feet of silver
Over the sands of gold!

away in the briny ocean There rolled a turbulent wave

Now singing along the sea-beach,
Now howling along the cave.

And the brooklet has found the billow,
Though they flowed so far apart,

And has filled with its freshness and sweetness
That turbulent, bitter heart!

FROM THE SPANISH CANCIONEROS.

E

I.

YES so tristful, eyes so tristful,

Heart so full of care and cumber, I was lapped in rest and slumber, Ye have made me wakeful, wistful!

In this life of labour endless

Who shall comfort my distresses?
Querulous my soul and friendless
In its sorrow shuns caresses.

Ye have made me, ye have made me
Querulous of you, that care not,
Eyes so tristful, yet I dare not
Say to what ye have betrayed me.

II.

Some day, some day,

O troubled breast,

Shalt thou find rest.

If Love in thee

To grief give birth,

Six feet of earth

Can more than he ;

There calm and free

And unoppressed

Shalt thou find rest.

The unattained

In life, at last

When life is passed,
Shall all be gained;

And no more pained,
No more distressed

Shalt thou find rest.

III.

Come, O Death, so silent flying That unheard thy coming be, Lest the sweet delight of dying Bring life back again to me.

For thy sure approach perceiving
In my constancy and pain
I new life should win again,
Thinking that I am not living.