Up the broad stairs that Value rears Stand motives beckoning earthward, To summon men to nobler spheres, And lead them worthward. _Ruth_. I'm afraid to show you anything more; For parsnips and art are so very long, That the passage back to the cellar-door Would be through a mile of song. But Truth owns me for an honest teller; And, if the honest truth be told, I am indebted to you and the cellar For a lesson and a cold. And one or the other cheats my sight; (O silly girl! for shame!) Barrels are hooped with rings of light, And stopped with tongues of flame. Apples have conquered original sin, Manna is pickled in brine, Philosophy fills the potato bin, And cider will soon be wine. So crown the basket with mellow fruit, And brim the pitcher with pearls; And we'll see how the old-time dainties suit The old-time boys and girls. [_They ascend the stairs_.] SECOND MOVEMENT. LOCALITY--_A chamber_. PRESENT--GRACE, MARY, _and the_ BABY. * * * * * THE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY EXPERIENCE. _Grace_. [_Sings_.] Hither, Sleep! A mother wants thee! Come with velvet arms! Fold the baby that she grants thee To thy own soft charms! Bear him into Dreamland lightly! Give him sight of flowers! Do not bring him back till brightly Break the morning hours! Close his eyes with gentle fingers! Cross his hands of snow! Tell the angels where he lingers They must whisper low! I will guard thy spell unbroken If thou hear my call; Come then, Sleep! I wait the token Of thy downy thrall. Now I see his sweet lips moving; He is in thy keep; Other milk the babe is proving At the breast of sleep! _Mary_. Sleep, babe, the honeyed sleep of innocence! Sleep like a bud; for soon the sun of life With ardors quick and passionate shall rise, And, with hot kisses part the fragrant lips-- The folded petals of thy soul! Alas! What feverish winds shall tease and toss thee, then! What pride and pain, ambition and despair, Desire, satiety, and all that fill With misery life's fretful enterprise, Shall wrench and blanch thee, till thou fall at last, Joy after joy down fluttering to the earth, To be apportioned to the elements! I marvel, baby, whether it were ill That He who planted thee should pluck thee now, And save thee from the blight that comes on all. I marvel whether it would not be well That the frail bud should burst in Paradise, On the full throbbing of an angel's heart! _Grace_. Oh, speak not thus! The thought is terrible. He is my all; and yet, it sickens me To think that he will grow to be a man. If he were not a boy! _Mary_.