And the wild wave! I would lie asleep, darling, With thee lie asleep, Unhearing the world weep, darling, Little children weep! O my little child! THE PATRIOT MOTHER IRISH BALLAD 1798 "Come tell us the name of the rebelly crew Who lifted the pike on the Curragh with you; Come, tell us their treason, and then you'll be free, Or by heavens you shall swing from the high gallows tree." 66 Alanna! alanna!* the shadow of shame Has never yet fallen on one of your name, And, oh! may the food from my bosom you drew, 66 The foul words oh! let them not blacken your tongue, That would prove to your friends and your country a wrong, Or the curse of a mother, so bitter and dread, With the wrath of the Lord-may they fall on your head! * Alanna - beauty " My beautiful!" 66 I have no one but you in the whole world wide, Yet, false to your pledge, you'd ne'er stand by my side; If a traitor you liv'd, you'd be farther away From my heart than, if true, you were wrapped in the clay. "Oh! deeper and darker the mourning would be For your falsehood so base, than your death proud and free; Dearer, far dearer than ever to me, My darling, you'll be on the brave gallows tree. "'Tis holy, agra! † with the bravest and best Go! go! from my heart, and be joined with the rest; Alanna ma cree! O, alanna ma cree! Sure astag'¶ and a traitor you never will be." There's no look of a traitor upon the young brow On the high gallows tree! on the brave gallows tree! Where smil'd leaves and blossoms, his sad doom met he; But it never bore blossom so pure and so fair, As the heart of the martyr that hangs from it there. † My love. Beauty of my heart. An informer. A MOTHER IN EGYPT BY MARJORIE L. C. PICKTHALL 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 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 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 not heed, do you not hear?—in the high priest's house by the wall. But mine is the grief, and their sorrow is all unavail ing. Will he awake at their call? Something I saw of the broad dim wings half folding The passionless brow. 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, Low-voiced, in a breath, Of a God who is stronger than ours, and who knows not changing nor pity, Whose anger is death. Nothing I know of the lords of the outland races, But Amud is gentle and Hathor the mother is mild, And who would descend from the light of the Peaceful Places To war on a child? Yet here he lies, with a scarlet pomegranate petal Blown down on his cheek. The slow sun sinks to the sand like a shield of some burnished metal, But he does not speak. I have called, I have sung, but he neither will hear nor waken; So lightly, so whitely, he lies in the curve of my arm, Like a feather let fall from the bird the arrow hath taken, Who could see him, and harm? "The swallow flies home to her sleep in the eaves of So do we sing o'er the mill, and why, ah, why should I falter, Since he goes to his rest? Does he play in their flowers as he played among these with his mother? Do the gods smile downward and love him and give him their care? Guard him well, O ye gods, till I come; lest the wrath of that Other Should reach to him there. THE FAREWELL Of a Virginia Slave Mother to Her Daughters Sold Into Southern Bondage. BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER Gone, gone,- sold and gone, To the rice-swamps dank and lone. Where the fever demon strews |