The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong! The mystic veil! when shall it fall, Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone, And waiting for the coming hour Lord of the living and the dead, We lay in silence at thy feet This sad, sad year. Harriet Beecher Stowe [1811-1896] THE WIDOW'S MITE A WIDOW-she had only one! A puny and decrepit son; But, day and night, Though fretful oft, and weak and small, The Widow's Mite. The Widow's Mite! ay, so sustained, I saw her then,-and now I see That, though resigned and cheerful, she She has, He gave it tenderly, Much faith; and, carefully laid by, A little crutch. Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895] ings there! I made them indeed d country." I taught them, no ng men should die for at need. ights, and about it. shed . . . O my beautiful eyes! . hem go forth at the wheels ed not. But then the surprise te alone! Then one weeps, then one ise feels! At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled With my kisses,-of camp-life and glory, and how Then was triumph at Turin: "Ancona was free!” I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, Who forbids our complaint." was impressed My Nanni would add, "he was safe, and aware To live on for the rest." On which, without pause, up the telegraph-line Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta:-Shot. Tell his mother. Ah, ah, "his," "their" mother;-not "mine," No voice says "My mother" again to me. What! Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven, htry from mountain to sea, ck me. Ah, ring your bells low, hen bear children in strength, hot by the sea in the east, me! Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861] A MOTHER IN EGYPT "About midnight will I go out into the midst of Egypt: and all the first-born in the land of Egypt shall die, from the first-born of Pharaoh that sitteth upon his throne, even unto the first-born of the maid-servant that is behind the mill.” Is the noise of grief in the palace over the river For this silent one at my side? There came a hush in the night, and he rose with his hands a-quiver Like lotus petals adrift on the swing of the tide. O small cold hands, the day groweth old for sleeping! O small still feet, rise up, for the hour is late! Rise up, my son, for I hear them mourning and weeping In the temple down by the gate! Hushed is the face that was wont to brighten with laughter When I sang at the mill; And silence unbroken shall greet the sorrowful dawns hereafter, The house shall be still. Voice after voice takes up the burden of wailing Do you heed, do you hear?-in the high priest's house by the wall. But mine is the grief, and their sorrow is all unavailing. Something I saw of the broad dim wings half folding Something I saw of the sword that the shadowy hands were holding, What matters it now? I held you close, dear face, as I knelt and harkened To the wind that cried last night like a soul in sin, When the broad bright stars dropped down and the soft sky darkened And the presence moved therein. I have heard men speak in the market-place of the city, Of a God who is stronger than ours, and who knows not changing nor pity, Whose anger is death. |