Woe’s me, what secret tears are shed,
What wounded spirits bleed;
What loving hearts are sundered,
And yet man takes no heed!
He goeth on his daily course,
Made fat with oil and wine,
And pitieth not the weary souls
That in his bondage pine;
That turn for him the mazy wheel;
That delve for him the mine.
And pitieth not the children small,
In noisy factories dim,
That all day long, lean, pale, and faint,
Do heavy tasks for him!
To him they are but as the stones
Beneath his feet that lie:
It entereth not his thoughts that they
From him claim sympathy.
It entereth not his thoughts that God
Heareth the sufferer’s groan,
That in his righteous eye, their life
Is precious as his own.
This moves him not. But let us now
Unto the fisher’s shed,
Where sat his weeping little ones
Three days beside the dead.
It was a solitary waste
Of barren sand, which bore
No sign of human dwelling-place
For miles along the shore.
Yet to the scattered dwellers there
Sped Marien, and besought
That of the living and the dead
They would take Christian thought.
So in the churchyard by the sea,
The senseless dead was laid:
“And now what will become of us!”
The weeping children said.
“For who will give us bread to eat?
The neighbors are so poor!
And he, our kinsman in the town,
Would drive us from his door.
“For he is rich and pitiless,
With heart as cold as stone!
Who will be parents to us now
That ours are dead and gone?”
“Weep not,” said faithful Marien,
“Man’s heart is not so hard,
But it your friendless misery
Will tenderly regard!
“And I with you will still abide,
Your friendless souls to cheer,
Be father and mother both to you;
For this God sent me here.
“And to your kinsman in the town,
Who hath such store of gold,
I will convey you: God can change
His spirit stern and cold.
“And ye, like angels of sweet love,
From earth his soul may win.
Fear not; and we with morning light
The journey will begin.”
They took their little worldly store;
And at the break of day,
Leaving the lonesome sea-side shed,
Set out upon their way.
’Mong sandy hills their way they wound;
O’er sea-grass dusk and harsh;
By many a land-mark lone and still;
Through many a salt-sea marsh.
And thus for twice seven days they went
A little roving band,
Walking along their weary way;
Like angels, hand in hand.
And everywhere kind Christian folks
They found, as Marien said,
Who gave them lodging for the night,
And gave them daily bread.
And thus they pilgrimed, day by day,
Alone yet not cast down,
Strengthened by Marien’s company,
Unto the sea-port town.
A busy town beside the sea,
Where men were all a stir,
Buying and selling; eager-eyed,
Two different races, yet allied,--
Merchant and mariner.
A place of ships, whose name was known
Far oft, beyond the main;
A busy place of trade, where nought
Was in repute but gain.
Thither they came, those children poor,
About the eventide,
And where dwelt he, their kinsman rich,
They asked on every side.
After long asking, one they found,
An old man and a poor,
Who undertook to lead them straight
Unto the kinsman’s door.
But ever as he went along
He to himself did say,
Low broken sentences, as thus,
“Their kinsman!--well-a-way!”
All through a lybrinth of walls
Blackened with cloudy smoke,
He led them, where was heard the forge
And the strong hammer’s stroke.
And beneath lofty windows dim
In many a doleful row,
Whence came the jangle of quicklooms,
Down to the courts below.
Still on the children, terrified,
With wildered spirits passed;
Until of these great mammon halls,
They reached the heart at last,--
A little chamber hot and dim,
With iron bars made fast.
There sate the kinsman, shrunk and lean,
And leaden-eyed and old,
Busied before a lighted lamp
In sealing bags of gold.
The moment that they entered in,
He clutched with pallid fear
His heavy bags, as if he thought
That sudden thieves were near.
“Rich man!” said Marien, “ope thy bags
And of thy gold be free,
Make gladsome cheer, for Heaven hath sent
A blessing unto thee!”
“What!” said the miser, “is there news
Of my lost argosy?”
“Better than gold, or merchant-ships,
Is that which thou shalt win,”
Said Marien, “thine immortal soul
From its black load of sin.”
“Look at these children, thine own blood,”
And then their name she told;
“Open thine heart to do them good,
To love them more than gold;--
And what thou givest will come back
To thee, a thousand-fold!”
“Ah,” said the miser, “even these
Some gainful work may do,
My looms stand still; of youthful hands
I have not half enow;
I shall have profit in their toil;
Yes, child, thy words are true!”
“Thou fool!” said Marien, “still for gain,
To cast thy soul away!
The Lord be judge ’twixt these and thee
Upon his reckoning day!
“These little ones are fatherless,--
He sees them day and night;
And as thou doest unto them,
On thee he will requite!”
“Gave I not alms upon a time?”
Said he, with anger thrilled;
“And when I die, give I not gold,
A stately church to build?
“What wouldst thou more? my flesh and blood
I seek not to gainsay,
But what I give, is it unmeet
Their labour should repay!”
So saying, in an iron chest,
He locked his bags of gold,
And bade the children follow him,
In accents harsh and cold.