Page:Poems Barrett.djvu/265

The mother from her babe looks up,
 And shrieks away its sleeping.
            Be pitiful, O God!

The plague of gold strikes far and near,—
 And deep and strong it enters:
This purple chimar which we wear,
 Makes madder than the centaur's.
Our thoughts grow blank, our words grow strange;
 We cheer the pale gold-diggers—
Each soul is worth so much on 'Change,
 And marked, like sheep, with figures.
            Be pitiful, O God!

The curse of gold upon the land,
 The lack of bread enforces—
The rail-cars snort from strand to strand,
 Like more of Death's White horses!
The rich preach "rights" and future days,
 And hear no angel scoffing:
The poor die mute—with starving gaze
 On corn-ships in the offing.
            Be pitiful, O God!

We meet together at the feast—
 To private mirth betake us—
We stare down in the winecup, lest
 Some vacant chair should shake us!
We name delight, and pledge it round—
 "It shall be ours to-morrow!"
God's seraphs! do your voices sound
 As sad in naming sorrow?
            Be pitiful, O God!

We sit together, with the skies,
 The stedfast skies, above us:
We look into each other's eyes,—
 "And how long will you love us?"—