A Little Child's Monument/Last Victims from the Wreck of the "Princess Alice"
I.
Two little bodies, from the tide
Last gathered, lie alone;
No father maddens by the side
Of Love turned into stone;
No mother weeps here for her pride,
Her joy for ever flown.
They were all innocence and mirth,
Warm light of loving eyes;
They are defiled and ruined earth,
The passing stranger flies.
The twain who watched them warmly curled,
Asleep with locks of gold,
Felt that for them the whole wide world
Nestled there aureoled.
And now they lie unknown, unnamed,
In London's awful roar;
Over them piteous, unclaimed
Oblivion's dust will pour,
Love's eyes look never more!
There is no silver sound, no speech,
Although they rest so nigh,
No rosy, dimpled hands impleach
In slumber tranquilly.
From the close clasp of loving arms,
From heedless holiday.
Hurled upon death's dire alarms,
And to uncared-for clay!
II.
Are they indeed unknown, unnamed?
Is any life spilt water?
In the lone universe unclaimed!
Souls for mad Chance to slaughter!
Have they no mother, and no father?
In all the worlds no friend?
Are they a dim, grey dust? … or rather.
Did our Eternal Parent send
Fair shining cohorts of His grace,
Strong children of His love,
Who minister before His face,
Swift-thronging from above,
To gather them from forth the gloom,
Long ere men found their forms?
To shield them in the shock of doom,
While heavenliest ardour warms
With emulation every breast!
All will be first to hold,
To lull the frightened babes to rest
In their maternal fold!
There leaned both sire and mother lost,
Dawning on the dim gaze;
And many sealed in death's deep frost,
Fathers of former days,
Thronged all the approaches of God's throne,
While Christ arose above,
Smiling a welcome to His own
Babe brethren of His love.
… Yet ah! the hideous prospect whirls;
Death-slumber seems profound;
With ghastly gleams the river swirls
Blindly above the drowned!
… Nay, but the children are awake,
Although we hear them not;
Our dear ones their sweet prattle make
In some fair, far cot.
I deem our life is a red flame
Of purgatorial fire;
And Death, God's calm white angel, came
From the Eternal Sire,
To lay cool hands before their eyes,
Shadowing from the glare,
And in profound tranquillities
To hide from our despair.
One pure white Light is over all,
One Spirit-Pulse serene,
Who when we rise, and when we fall,
Unmoved approves the scene.
For Love is Lord from Heaven to Hell,
Walks our red waves of sorrow;
Love weeps beside us; all is well;
Day will dawn to-morrow.
Love weeps beside us, and within
Love moaneth for our lot;
Behold! his vassals, Death and Sin,
Chained to his chariot!
Love sleeps not, throned indifferent
Upon a lordly scorn;
He is the Man, whose brows are rent
With sorrow's crown of thorn.
God is the God-forsaken Man;
He is the Little Child;
His eyes with human woes are wan;
And all is reconciled!