pleasures except sins,
Gambling with a stolen penny.

XVIII.

Sickly children, that whine low
To themselves and not their mothers,
From mere habit,--never so
Hoping help or care from others.

XIX.

Healthy children, with those blue
English eyes, fresh from their Maker,
Fierce and ravenous, staring through
At the brown loaves of the baker.

XX.

I am listening here in Rome,
And the Romans are confessing,
"English children pass in bloom
All the prettiest made for blessing.

XXI.

"_Angli angeli!_" (resumed
From the mediaeval story)
"Such rose angelhoods, emplumed
In such ringlets of pure glory!"

XXII.

Can we smooth down the bright hair,
O my sisters, calm, unthrilled in
Our heart's pulses? Can we bear
The sweet looks of our own children,

XXIII.

While those others, lean and small,
Scurf and mildew of the city,
Spot our streets, convict us all
Till we take them into pity?

XXIV.

"Is it our fault?" you reply,
"When, throughout civilization,
Every nation's empery
Is asserted by starvation?

XXV.

"All these mouths we cannot feed,
And we cannot clothe these bodies."
Well, if man's so hard indeed,
Let them learn at least what God is!

XXVI.

Little outcasts from life's fold,
The grave's hope they may be joined in
By Christ's covenant consoled
For our social contract's grinding.

XXVII.

If no better can be done,
Let us do but this,--endeavour
That the sun behind the sun
Shine upon them while they shiver!

XXVIII.

On the dismal London flags,
Through the cruel social juggle,
Put a thought beneath their rags
To ennoble the heart's struggle.

XXIX.

O my sisters, not so much
Are we asked for--not a blossom
From our children's nosegay, such
As we gave it from our bosom,--

XXX.

Not the milk left in their cup,
Not the lamp while they are sleeping,
Not the little cloak hung up
While the coat's in daily keeping,--

XXXI.

But a place in RAGGED SCHOOLS,
Where the outcasts may to-morrow
Learn by gentle words and rules
Just the uses of their sorrow.

XXXII.

O my sisters! children small,
Blue-eyed, wailing through the city--
Our own babes cry in them all:
Let us take them into pity.

MAY'S LOVE.

[Illustration: Handwritten Copy of Poem]

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