Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly.
Let them weep! let them weep!

They look up, with their pale and sunken faces,
And their look is dread to see,

For they mind you of their angels in high places,
With eyes turned on Deity! -

"How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation, Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart,

Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,

And tread onward to your throne amid the mart? Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper,

And your purple shows your path!

But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper
Than the strong man in his wrath."

THE PEOPLE'S PETITION

W. M. W. CALL

THE landlords, who were naturally interested to secure high prices for their crops, had induced Parliament to pass a corn law (1815) imposing heavy taxes on all grains imported into the country. This prevented foreigners from sending their grain to England, and bread, since it must be made of English wheat, was very dear. Workingmen found it difficult to buy sufficient food for themselves and their families. It was a grievance most keenly felt by the people of the towns who had no garden-land. Much was said and written against the corn law, but no argument could induce the government to abandon this wicked tax until 1846. Then the potato crop failed, and the Irish peasants, deprived of their staple food, began to die of starvation. The corn law was speedily repealed, and it has since been the policy of Great Britain to lay import duties only upon luxuries.

O lords! O rulers of the nation!

O softly cloth'd! O richly fed!
O men of wealth and noble station!
Give us our daily bread.

For you we are content to toil,
For you our blood like rain is shed;
Then, lords and rulers of the soil,
Give us our daily bread.

Your silken robes, with endless care,
Still weave we; still uncloth'd, unfed,
We make the raiment that ye wear:
Give us our daily bread.

In the red forge-light do we stand,
We early leave-late seek our bed,
Tempering the steel for your right hand :
Give us our daily bread.

We sow your fields, ye reap the fruit;
We live in misery and in dread;

Hear but our prayer, and we are mute:
Give us our daily bread.

Throughout old England's pleasant fields.
There is no spot where we may tread,
No house to us sweet shelter yields:
Give us our daily bread.

Fathers are we; we see our sons,

We see our fair young daughters, dead;

Then hear us, O ye mighty ones!

Give us our daily bread.

'Tis vain

with cold, unfeeling eye

Ye gaze on us, uncloth'd, unfed;

'Tis vain-ye will not hear our cry,
Nor give us daily bread.

We turn from you, our lords by birth,
To him who is our Lord above;

We all are made of the same earth,

Are children of one love.

Then, Father of this world of wonders,

Judge of the living and the dead,

Lord of the lightnings and the thunders,
Give us our daily bread.

THE DAY IS COMING

WILLIAM MORRIS

MUCH has been done for the welfare of the people in England, but much yet remains to do. William Morris hoped that all distinction between rich and poor would be done away and that every man would labor for the common good. The poet's dream may yet become reality.

Come hither lads and hearken,

for a tale there is to tell,

Of the wonderful days a-coming, when all
shall be better than well.

And the tale shall be told of a country,

a land in the midst of the sea,

And folk shall call it England

in the days that are going to be.

There more than one in a thousand in the days that are yet to come, Shall have some hope of the morrow, some joy of the ancient home.

For then, laugh not, but listen, to this strange tale of mine, All folk that are in England

shall be better lodged than swine.

Then a man shall work and bethink him, and rejoice in the deeds of his hand, Nor yet come home in the even

too faint and weary to stand.

Men in that time a-coming

shall work and have no fear For to-morrow's lack of earning and the hunger-wolf anear.

I tell you this for a wonder,
that no man then shall be glad
Of his fellow's fall and mishap

to snatch at the work he had.

For that which the worker winneth shall then be his indeed,

Nor shall half be reaped for nothing by him that sowed no seed.

O strange new wonderful justice!

But for whom shall we gather the gain? For ourselves and for each of our fellows, and no hand shall labour in vain.

Then all Mine and all Thine shall be Ours, and no more shall any man crave For riches that serve for nothing

but to fetter a friend for a slave.

And what wealth then shall be left us when none shall gather gold

To buy his friend in the market, and pinch and pine the sold?

Nay, what save the lovely city,

and the little house on the hill, And the wastes and the woodland beauty, and the happy fields we till;

And the homes of ancient stories,
the tombs of the mighty dead;
And the wise men seeking out marvels,
and the poet's teeming head;

And the painter's hand of wonder;
and the marvellous fiddle-bow,
And the banded choirs of music:

all those that do and know.

For all these shall be ours and all men's, nor shall any lack a share

Of the toil and the gain of living

in the days when the world grows fair.