Now I must rock forever empty arms, That grieve they have no burden any more. Now I must sing, and know, the while, no ears Are there to hearken. The birds will ask me, "To whom singest thou?" The moon look down and ask, "Whom rockest thou?" The grave will be right proud, while I am cursed, That I did give her thee. My womb upbraideth me because I gave To Death the gift that once she gave to me, The gift that sprung from her. Now must I see thy sleep and never know Whether this sleep be sweet. Then do I ask of Earth "Is the sleep sweet indeed That in thy lap we sleep?" But, ah! thou knowest Earth misliketh pity, And loves to hold her peace! Wilt thou then answer in her stead, and say, "What do the birds, O mother, Since I have gone to sleep? And the river with its pebbles, Since I have gone to sleep? And thy broken heart, O mother, Thy little heart, dear mother, Since I. have gone to sleep! Does my father guide the oxen Walking beside the ploughshare. Since I have gone to sleep?" Oh, say all this to me! Answer instead of Earth that knows no pity, And loves to hold her peace. The river went weeping, weeping, Ah, me, how it did weep! But I would never heed it, The weeping of the river, Whilst thou were at my breast. The stars, poor stars, were weeping, But I would not hear their weeping, Whilst yet I heard thy voice. And this other has a beautiful and touching sentiment:-- _The river last night swept the bridge away, And so we must wade through the river to-day. The maidens sing as they wade, and are gay._ A little sister the dead child had, Since it died little sister has grown more glad, And saith to the mother: "Its own sweet smile The one that is dead unto me did give, And all the life that it might not live Now lives in me." But the mother, the while Fell a-weeping, and bowed her head, And remembered the child that was dead. _The river last night swept the bridge away, And so we must wade through the river to-day. The maidens sing as they wade, and are gay._ There are other sources of grief than that of simple death, whose sorrow can weep itself away, the tragedies of crime and sin and the agonies of remorse. There is an occasional touch of that ferocity which rejoices in a bloody revenge, as would be natural to a passionate people, and which is manifested in the Song of the Dagger. The dagger at my belt that dances