Читать книгу Beadle's Dime National Speaker, Embodying Gems of Oratory and Wit, Particularly Adapted to American Schools and Firesides - Various - Страница 6

The news is flying along the streets:

It leaves a smile with each face it meets.

The heart of London is all on fire —

Its throbbing veins beat faster and higher —

With eager triumph they beat so fast —

"The Malakoff – Malakoff falls at last!"

Hark to the murmur, the shout, the yell —

"The Malakoff's fallen!" – well, 'tis well!

But let the childless weep.

I am faint and stunn'd by the crowd;

My head aches with the tumult loud.

On this step I will sit me down,

Where the city palaces o'er me frown.

I would these happy people could see

Sights which are never absent from me;

The sound of their joy to sobs might swell,

They would swallow tears – well – it is well!

But let the childless weep.

If they could see my two young sons

Shatter'd and torn by Russian guns, —

The only children God gave me – dead!

With the rough earth for a dying bed.

Side by side, in the trenches deep —

Perchance they would weep as I must weep.

No sons of theirs on that red hill fell,

And so they smile and say, "'tis well!"

But let the childless weep.

I know where in the cottages low

Women's faces grow white with woe;

Where throats are choked with tears unshed

When widows' children ask for bread.

I think of one whose heart has grown

As cold and heavy as this stone.

But cabinets never think so low

As a mother's anguish, and so – and so

Why let the childless weep.

O Queen! your children around you sleep;

Their rest at night is sweet and deep.

Do you ever think of the mothers many

Whose sons you required, and left not any?

Do you think of young limbs bruised and crush'd

And laughing voices forever hush'd?

My soul with a fierce rage might swell,

But grief hath all the place – 'tis well!

Let the childless weep.

Could God have seen with prophet eye,

When He piled the Malakoff hill so high,

That it was to be soaked through and through

With streams and streams of blood-red dew,

And covered over with anguish? – no!

Or He would have leveled it small and low.

It is man who is haughty, fierce, and cruel —

Who heaps on his altar the living fuel!

Let the childless weep.

England! England! haughty and bold!

You still covet what you behold;

To have your own proud will and way

You will make widows, thousands a day.

You buy your power with human life,

And the sobbing child and hopeless wife

Give up their dearest at your call —

But hearts must break and towers must fall

Let the childless weep.

Weep? I can not weep while around

Swells the victory's awful sound.

The Malakoff fell, – but England's way

O'er the bosoms that loved her deepest lay.

Victoria's children laugh in glee! —

Does she remember mine, or me?

Oh, footman, leave me this cold stone —

My sons are dead and I am alone —

The childless can not weep.