Page:Poems Barrett.djvu/264

The Cry of the Human.

"There is no God," the foolish saith,—
 But none, "There is no sorrow;"
And nature oft, the cry of faith,
 In hitter need will borrow!
Eyes, which the preacher could not school,
 By wayside graves are raised;
And lips say, "God he pitiful,"
 Who ne'er said, "God he praised."
            Be pitiful, O God!

The tempest stretches from the steep
 The shadow of its coming—
The beasts grow tame, and near us creep,
 As help were in the human—
Yet, while the cloud-wheels roll and grind,
 We spirits tremble under!—
The hills have echoes; hut we find
 No answer for the thunder.
            Be pitiful, O God!

The battle hurtles on the plains—
 Earth feels new scythes upon her:
We reap our brothers for the wains,
 And call the harvest . . . honour,—
Draw face to face, front line to line,
 One image all inherit,—
Then kill, curse on, by that same sign,
 Clay, clay,—and spirit, spirit.
            Be pitiful, O God!

The plague runs festering through the town,—
 And never a hell is tolling;
And corpses, jostled 'neath the moon,
 Nod to the dead-cart's rolling!
The young child calleth for the cup—
 The strong man brings it weeping;