Blackwood's Magazine, Volume 54

W. Blackwood., 1843

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Page 260 - 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.
Page 262 - Who is God, that He should hear us, While 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...
Page 262 - He is speechless as a stone: And they tell us, of His image is the master Who commands us to work on. Go to!
Page 129 - Dove towards such an Ark! Deftly, thou shifty Usher: one man already fell; and lies smashed, far down there, against the masonry! Usher Maillard falls not: deftly, unerring he walks, with outspread palm. The Swiss holds a paper through his porthole; the shifty Usher snatches it, and returns. Terms of surrender: Pardon, immunity to all! Are they accepted? — "Foi d'officier, On the word of an officer," answers half-pay Hulin, — or half-pay Elie, for men do not agree on it, "they are!
Page 261 - 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!
Page 261 - 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.
Page 262 - 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!
Page 318 - My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.
Page 260 - 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.
Page 466 - For I say unto you, I will not any more eat thereof, until it be fulfilled in the kingdom of God.

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