which would instantly place the limbs of labor
between cambric sheets and line their stomachs with sweetmeats.
The truly wise base their expectations for the race upon no such
sudden revolution, but rather see salvation for their fellows in
a gradual and natural betterment of conditions, a growth upwards
that can be maintained through all the spasms of reform, a
lifting of the whole fabric of society by the great forces of
education, faith, and persistency, which are and have ever been
the architects of the race."

PLAZA OF THE POETS.

REPLY TO "LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER."

BY BARTON LOMAX PITTMAN.

Nay, my grandsire, though you leave me latest lord of Locksley Hall,
Speak of Amy's heavenly graces and the frailty of her fall,
Point me to the shield of Locksley, hanging in this mansion lone,
I must turn from such sad splendor ere my heart be changed to stone.

While you prate of pride ancestral and the dead dreams of your youth,
I, despite my birth and lineage, am a battler for the truth.
To the work-worn, half-starved peasants of this realm my heart goes
out--
Those who, plundered and forgotten, find this life a ruthless rout.

In the rustling robes of Amy bloomed the roses that had fled
From the cheeks of pauper maidens forced into the brothel-bed;
In her saintly smiles and glances flashed the sunlight that was shut
By the iron-hand injustice from the cotter's humble hut.

Nay, 'tis wrong that we should range with science glorying in the
time,
While we force our brother mortals into squalor, need, and crime;
Wicked we should pose as Christians singing songs to God on high,
Heedless of his tortured creatures who in pauper prisons lie.

Christless is the crime of turning creed-stopped ears to teardrops
shed
By the women whom oppression robs of virtue for their bread.
Satan's blush would mantle crimson could he see the stunted child
Slaving in our marts and markets, helpless, hopeless, and reviled--

See its pallid face uplifted from the whirling factory wheels,
Tear-stained with the grief and anguish of a baby brain that reels,
Tortured in life's budding springtime, toiling on with stifled cries,
Seeing, through its tears refracted, rippling cascades, azure skies;
Skies and birds and flowery meadows made for children wealthy-born,