children I will toil: It cannot be much longer (For God almighty is and good!) Ere I for work am stronger. Oh let us here with men remain, Nor drive us any further! Oh why our curses will you have, And not our blessings rather!”

And now the sick man quails before The judge’s piercing glances: “No, only two of you shall go This time and take your chances. Your wife and you! The children four You’ll leave, my man, behind you, For them, within the Orphan’s Home, Free places I will find you.”

The father’s dumb—the mother shrieks: “My babes and me you’d sever? If God there be, such cruel act Shall find forgiveness never! But first, oh judge, must you condemn To death their wretched mother— I cannot leave my children dear With you or any other!

“I bore and nursed them, struggling still To shelter and to shield them, Oh judge, I’ll beg from door to door, My very life-blood yield them! I know you do not mean it, judge, With us poor folk you’re jesting. Give back my babes, and further yet We’ll wander unprotesting.”

The judge, alas! has turned away, The paper dread unrolled, And useless all the mother’s grief, The wild and uncontrolled. More cruel can a sentence be Than that which now is given? Oh cursed the system ’neath whose sway The human heart is riven!

 A Millionaire

No, not from tuning-forks of gold Take I my key for singing; From Upper Seats no order bold Can set my music ringing; But groans the slave through sense of wrong, And naught my voice can smother; As flame leaps up, so leaps my song For my oppressed brother.

And thus the end comes swift and sure... Thus life itself must leave me; For what can these my brothers poor In compensation give me, Save tears for ev’ry tear and sigh?— (For they are rich in anguish). A millionaire of tears am I, And mid my millions languish.

 September Melodies

I

The summer is over! ’Tis windy and chilly. The flowers are dead in the dale. All beauty has faded, The rose and the lily In death-sleep lie withered and pale.

Now hurries the stormwind A mournful procession Of leaves and dead flowers along, Now murmurs the forest Its dying confession, And hushed is the holiest song.

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