The dust of a hundred years Is on thy breast, And thy day and thy night of tears Are centurine rest. Thou to whom joy was dumb, Life a broken rhyme, Lo, thy smiling time is come, And our weeping time. Thou who hadst sponge and myrrh And a bitter cross, Smile, for the day is here That we know our loss;-- Loss of thine undone deed, Thy unfinished song, Th' unspoken word for our need, Th' unrighted wrong; Smile, for we weep, we weep, For the unsoothed pain, The unbound wound burned deep, That we might gain. Mother of sorrowful eyes In the dead old days, Mother of many sighs, Of pain-shod ways; Mother of resolute feet Through all the thorns, Mother soul-strong, soul-sweet,-- Lo, after storms Have broken and beat thy dust For a hundred years, Thy memory is made just, And the just man hears. Thy children kneel and repeat: "Though dust be dust, Though sod and coffin and sheet And moth and rust Have folded and molded and pressed, Yet they cannot kill; In the heart of the world at rest She liveth still." =Philadelphia,= April 27th, 1893. THE GODS AND THE PEOPLE What have you done, O skies, That the millions should kneel to you? Why should they lift wet eyes, Grateful with human dew? Why should they clasp their hands, And bow at thy shrines, O heaven, Thanking thy high commands For the mercies that thou hast given? What have those mercies been, O thou, who art called the Good, Who trod through a world of sin, And stood where the felon stood? What is that wondrous peace Vouchsafed to the child of dust, For whom all doubt shall cease In the light of thy perfect trust? How hast Thou heard their prayers Smoking up from the bleeding sod, Who, crushed by their weight of cares, Cried up to Thee, Most High God? * * * * * Where the swamps of Humanity sicken, Read the answer, in dumb, white scars! You, Skies, gave the sore and the stricken The light of your far-off stars! The children who plead are driven, Shelterless, through the street, Receiving the mercy of Heaven Hard-frozen in glittering sleet! The women who prayed for pity, Who called on the saving Name, Through the walks of your merciless city Are crying the rent of shame. The starving, who gazed on the plenty In which they might not share, Have died in their hunger, rent by The anguish of unheard prayer! The weary who plead for remission, For a moment, only, release, Have sunk, with unheeded petition: This is the Christ-pledged Peace. These are the mercies of Heaven, These are the answers of God, To the prayers of the agony-shriven, From the paths where the millions plod!