With withering light upon the mighty seats,

They hear the far-resounding trump of fame;

On other lips they hear the one-loved name

In vaunting or derision, and they weep

To know that they shall never lull to sleep

Those tired heads, crowned with desolating flame.

Beyond the hot arena's baleful glow,

Beyond the towering pomp they dimly see,

They sit and watch the fateful pageants go

Through war's red arch, or up to Calvary,

The First Love still within their hearts impearled—

Mothers of all the masters of the world!

[51]

[51]

IN THE NIGHT.

 The Child.

I hear you weeping, mother, dear,—

I hear you wake and weep;

What brings the tears into your eyes

When you should be asleep?

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