grave of the illustrious dead; while their brilliant talents, their deeds of benevolence and public spirit, their wise and eloquent words, their healing counsels, their generous affections, the whole man, in short, whom we revered and loved and would fain imitate, especially when his image is impressed upon our recollections by the pencil or the chisel, goes forth to the admiration of the latest posterity. _Extinctus amabitur idem._ LET THE CHILDLESS WEEP.--_Metta Victoria Victor._ The news is flying along the streets: It leaves a smile with each face it meets. The heart of London is all on fire-- Its throbbing veins beat faster and higher-- With eager triumph they beat so fast-- "The Malakoff--Malakoff falls at last!" Hark to the murmur, the shout, the yell-- "The Malakoff's fallen!"--well, 'tis well! But let the childless weep. I am faint and stunn'd by the crowd; My head aches with the tumult loud. On this step I will sit me down, Where the city palaces o'er me frown. I would these happy people could see Sights which are never absent from me; The sound of their joy to sobs might swell, They would swallow tears--well--it is well! But let the childless weep. If they could see my two young sons Shatter'd and torn by Russian guns,-- The only children God gave me--dead! With the rough earth for a dying bed. Side by side, in the trenches deep-- Perchance they would weep as I must weep. No sons of theirs on that red hill fell, And so they smile and say, "'tis well!" But let the childless weep. I know where in the cottages low Women's faces grow white with woe; Where throats are choked with tears unshed When widows' children ask for bread. I think of one whose heart has grown As cold and heavy as this stone. But cabinets never think so low As a mother's anguish, and so--and so Why let the childless weep. O Queen! your children around you sleep; Their rest at night is sweet and deep. Do you ever think of the mothers many Whose sons you required, and left not any? Do you think of young limbs bruised and crush'd And laughing voices forever hush'd? My soul with a fierce rage might swell, But grief hath all the place--'tis well! Let the childless weep. Could God have seen with prophet eye, When He piled the Malakoff hill so high, That it was to be soaked through and through With streams and streams of blood-red dew, And covered over with anguish?--no! Or He would have leveled it small and low. It is man who is haughty, fierce, and cruel-- Who heaps on his altar the living fuel! Let the childless weep.