Lays and legends Part 4

Throb, throb, throb, weariness, ache, and pain!

One's heart and one's eyes on fire, And never a spark in one's brain.

The stupid paper and ink, That might be turned into gold, Lie here unused Since one's brain refused To do its tricks--as of old.

One can suffer still, indeed, But one cannot think any more.

There's no fire in the grate, No food on the plate, And the East-wind shrieks through the door.

The suns.h.i.+ne grins in the street: It used to cheer me like wine, Now it only quickens my brain's sick beat; And the children are crying for bread to eat And I cannot write a line!

Molly, my pet--don't cry, Father can't write if you do-- And anyhow, if you only knew, It's hard enough as it is.

There, give old daddy a kiss, And cuddle down on the floor; We'll have some dinner by-and-by.

Now, fool, try! Try once more!

Hold your head tight in your hands, Bring your will to bear!

The children are starving--your little ones-- While you sit fooling there.

Beth, with her golden hair; Moll, with her rough, brown head-- Here they are--see!

Against your knee, Waiting there to be fed!-- I cannot bear their eyes.

Their soft little kisses burn-- They will cry again In vain, in vain, For the food that I cannot earn.

If I could only write Just a dozen pages or so On "The Prospects of Trade," or "The Irish Question," or "Why are Wages so Low?"-- The printers are waiting for copy now, I've had my next week's screw, There'll be nothing more till I've written something, Oh, G.o.d! what am I to do?

If I could only write!

The paper glares up white Like the cursed white of the heavy stone Under which _she_ lies alone; And the ink is black like death, And the room and the window are black.

Molly, Molly--the sun's gone out, Cannot you fetch it back?

Did I frighten my little ones?

Never mind, daddy dropped asleep-- Cuddle down closely, creep Close to his knee And daddy will see If he can't do his writing. Vain!

I shall never write again!

Oh, G.o.d! was it like a love divine To make their lives hang on my pen When I cannot write a line?

TWO LULLABIES.

I.

Sleep, sleep, my little baby dear, Thee shall no want or pain come near; Sleep softly on thy downy nest, Or on this lace-veiled mother-breast.

Thy cradle is all silken lined, Wrought roses on thy curtains twined, Warm woolly blankets o'er thee spread, With soft white pillows for thy head.

Much gold those little hands shall hold, And wealth about thy life shall fold, And thou shalt see nor pain nor strife, Nor the low ills of common life.

These little feet shall never tread Except on paths soft-carpeted, And all life's flowers in wreaths shall twine To deck that darling head of thine.

Thou shalt have overflowing measure Of wealth and joy and peace and pleasure, And thou shalt be right charitable With all the crumbs that leave thy table.

And thou shalt praise G.o.d every day For His good gifts that come thy way, And again thank Him, and again, That thou art not as other men.

For 'midst thy wealth thou wilt recall-- 'Tis to G.o.d's grace thou owest it all; And when all's spent that life has given, Thou'lt have a golden home in heaven.

II.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, Though the wind is cruel and cold, And my shawl that I've wrapped thee in Is old and ragged and thin; And my hand is too frozen to hold-- Yet my bosom's still warm--so creep Close to thy mother, and sleep!

Sleep, little baby, and rest, Though we wander alone through the night, And there is no food for me, No shelter for me and thee.

Through the windows red fires s.h.i.+ne bright, And tables show, heaped with the best-- But there's naught for us there--so rest.

Sleep, you poor little thing!

Just as pretty and dear As any fine lady's child.

Oh, but my heart grows wild!-- Is it worth while to stay here?

What good thing from life will spring For you--you poor little thing?

Sleep, you poor little thing!

Mine, my treasure, my own-- I clasp you, I hold you close, My darling, my bird, my rose!

Rich mothers have hearts like stone, Or else some help they would bring To you--you poor little thing!

Sleep, little baby, sleep-- If some good, rich mother would take My dear, I would kiss thee, and then Never come near thee again-- Not though my heart should break!

I could leave thee, dear, for thy sake-- For the river is dark and deep, And gives sleep, little baby, sleep!

BABY SONG.

I.

Sleep, baby, sleep!

The greeny glow-worms creep, The pigeons to their cote are gone And, to their fold, the sheep.

Rest, baby, rest!

The sun sinks in the west, The daisies all have gone to sleep, The birds are in the nest.

Sleep, baby, sleep!

The sky grows dark and deep, The stars watch over all the world, G.o.d's angels guard thy sleep.

II.

Wake, baby dear!

The good, glad morning's here; The dove is cooing soft and low, The lark sings loud and clear.

Wake, baby, wake!

Long since the day did break, The daisy buds are all uncurled, The sun laughs in the lake.

Wake, baby dear!

Thy mother's waiting near, And love, and flowers, and birds, and sun, And all things bright and dear.