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.
OUR COUNTRY'S GREATEST GLORY.--_Bishop Whipple, of Minnesota_, 1860.
The true glory of a nation is in an intelligent, honest, industrious
Christian people. The civilization of a nation depends on their
individual character; a constitution which is not the outgrowth of
this is not worth the parchment on which it is written. You look in
vain in the past for a single instance where the people have preserved
their liberties after their individual character was lost. The ruler
represents the people, and laws and institutions are the simple
outgrowth of domestic character. It is not in the magnificence of the
home of the ruler, not in the beautiful creations of art lavished
on public edifices, not in costly cabinets of pictures or public
libraries, not in proud monuments of achievements in battle, not in
the number or wealth of its cities, that we find pledges of national
glory. The ruler may gather around his palace the treasures of the
world, amid a brutalized people; the senate chamber may retain its
faultless proportions long after the voice of patriotism is hushed
within its walls; the marble may commemorate a glory which has
forever departed. Art and letters may bring no lesson to a people
whose heart is dead; the only glory of a nation is in the living
temple of a loyal, industrious, and upright people. The busy click
of machinery, the merry ring of the anvil, the lowing of peaceful
herds, and the song of the harvest home, are sweeter music than pæans
of departed glory or songs of triumph in war. The vine-clad cottage
of the hill-side, the cabin of the woodsman, and the rural home of
the farmer are the true citadels of any country. There is a dignity
in honest toil which belongs not to the display of wealth or the
luxury of fashion. The man who drives the plow, or swings his ax in
the forest, or with cunning fingers plies the tools of his craft, is
as truly the servant of his country, as the statesman in the senate
or the soldier in battle. The safety of a nation depends not on the
wisdom of its statesmen or the bravery of its generals; the tongue of
eloquence never saved a nation tottering to its fall; the sword of
a warrior never stayed its destruction. There is a surer defense in
every Christian home. I say Christian home, for I know of no glory to
manhood which comes not from the cross. I know of no rights wrung
from tyranny, no truth rescued from darkness and bigotry, which has
not waited on a Christian civilization. Would you see the image of
true glory, I would show you villages where the crown and glory of the
people was in purity of character, where the children were gathered in
Christian schools, where the voice of prayer goes heavenward, where
the people have that most priceless gift--_faith in God_. With this as
the basis, and leavened as it will be with brotherly love, there will
be no danger in grappling with any evils which exist in our midst; we
shall feel that we may work and bide our time, and die knowing that
God will bring the victory.