The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No 3, September, 1862

A part of which stipulation is hereby kept, with the promise of the writer that the remainder shall be faithfully fulfilled in forthcoming numbers.

THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD

Tell us—poor gray-haired children that we are—
Tell us some story of the days afar,
Down shining through the years like sun and star.

The stories that, when we were very young,
Like golden beads on lips of wisdom hung,
At fireside told or by the cradle sung.

Not Cinderella with the tiny shoe,
Nor Harsan's carpet that through distance flew,
Nor Jack the Giant-Killer's derring-do.

Not even the little lady of the Hood,
But something sadder—easier understood—
The ballad of the Children in the Wood.

Poor babes! the cruel uncle lives again,
To whom their little voices plead in vain—
Who sent them forth to be by ruffians slain.

The hapless agent of the guilt is here—
From whose seared heart their pleading brought a tear—
Who could not strike, but fled away in fear.

And hand in hand the wanderers, left alone,
Through the dense forest make their feeble moan,
Fed on the berries—pillowed on a stone.

Still hand in hand, till little feet grow sore,
And fails the feeble strength their limbs that bore;
Then they lie down, and feel the pangs no more.

The stars shine down in pity from the sky;
The night-bird marks their fate with plaintive cry;
The dew-drop wets their parched lips ere they die.

There clasped they lie—death's poor, unripened sheaves—
Till the red robin through the tree-top grieves,
And flutters down and covers them with leaves.

'Tis an old legend, and a touching one:
What then? Methinks beneath to-morrow's sun
Some deed as heartless will be planned and done.

Children of older years and sadder fate
Will wander, outcasts, from the great world's gate,
And ne'er return again, though long they wait.

Through wildering labyrinths that round them close,
In that heart-hunger disappointment knows,
They long may wander ere the night's repose.

Their feeble voices through the dusk may call,
And on the ears of busy mortals fall,
But who will hear, save God above us all?

Will wolfish Hates forego their evil work,
Nor Envy's vultures in the branches perk,
Nor Slander's snakes within the verdure lurk?

And when at last the torch of life grows dim,
Shall sweet birds o'er them chant a burial-hymn,
Or decent pity veil the stiffening limb?

Thrice happy they, if the old legend stand,
And they are left to wander hand in hand—
Not driven apart by Eden's blazing brand!

If, long before the lonely night comes on—
By tempting berries wildered and withdrawn—
One does not look and find the other gone;

If something more of shame, and grief, and wrong
Than that so often told in nursery song,
To their sad history does not belong!

O lonely wanderers in the great world's wood!
Finding the evil where you seek the good,
Often deceived and seldom understood—

Lay to your hearts the plaintive tale of old,
When skies grow threatening or when loves grow cold,
Or something dear is hid beneath the mold!

For fates are hard, and hearts are very weak,
And roses we have kissed soon leave the cheek,
And what we are, we scarcely dare to speak.

But something deeper, to reflective eyes,
To-day beneath the sad old story lies,
And all must read if they are truly wise.

A nation wanders in the deep, dark night,
By cruel hands despoiled of half its might,
And half its truest spirits sick with fright.