not happy, as thou mightest be,
For the want of Christ's simplicity.

It is blood that thou lackest, thou poor old world!
Who shall make thy love hot for thee, frozen old world?
Thou art not happy, as thou mightest be,
For the love of dear Jesus is little in thee.

Poor world! if thou cravest a better day,
Remember that Christ must have his own way;
I mourn thou art not as thou mightest be,
But the love of God would do all for thee.

FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.

* * * * *

THE CRY OF THE HUMAN.

"There is no God," the foolish saith,
But none, "There is no sorrow";
And nature oft the cry of faith
In bitter need will borrow:
Eyes which the preacher could not school,
By wayside graves are raised;
And lips say, "God be pitiful,"
Who ne'er said, "God be praised."
Be pitiful, O God!

The tempest stretches from the steep
The shadow of its coming;
The beasts grow tame, and near us creep,
As help were in the human:
Yet while the cloud-wheels roll and grind
We spirits tremble under!--
The hills have echoes; but we find
No answer for the thunder.
Be pitiful, O God!

The battle hurtles on the plains--
Earth feels new scythes upon her:
We reap our brothers for the wains,
And call the harvest, honor,--
Draw face to face, front line to line,
One image all inherit,--
Then kill, curse on, by that same sign,
Clay, clay,--and spirit, spirit.
Be pitiful, O God!

The plague runs festering through the town,
And never a bell is tolling:
And corpses jostled 'neath the moon,
Nod to the dead-cart's rolling.
The young child calleth for the cup--
The strong man brings it weeping;
The mother from her babe looks up,
And shrieks away its sleeping.
Be pitiful, O God!

The plague of gold strides far and near,
And deep and strong it enters:
This purple chimar which we wear,
Makes madder than the centaur's.
Our thoughts grow blank, our words grow strange;
We cheer the pale gold-diggers--
Each soul is worth so much on 'Change,
And marked, like sheep, with figures.
Be pitiful, O God!

The curse of gold upon the land,
The lack of bread enforces--
The rail-cars snort from strand to strand,
Like more of Death's White Horses:
The rich preach "rights" and future days,
And hear no angel scoff