There clasped they lie--death's poor, unripened sheaves-- Till the red robin through the tree-top grieves, And flutters down and covers them with leaves. 'Tis an old legend, and a touching one: What then? Methinks beneath to-morrow's sun Some deed as heartless will be planned and done. Children of older years and sadder fate Will wander, outcasts, from the great world's gate, And ne'er return again, though long they wait. Through wildering labyrinths that round them close, In that heart-hunger disappointment knows, They long may wander ere the night's repose. Their feeble voices through the dusk may call, And on the ears of busy mortals fall, But who will hear, save God above us all? Will wolfish Hates forego their evil work, Nor Envy's vultures in the branches perk, Nor Slander's snakes within the verdure lurk? And when at last the torch of life grows dim, Shall sweet birds o'er them chant a burial-hymn, Or decent pity veil the stiffening limb? Thrice happy they, if the old legend stand, And they are left to wander hand in hand-- Not driven apart by Eden's blazing brand! If, long before the lonely night comes on-- By tempting berries wildered and withdrawn-- One does not look and find the other gone; If something more of shame, and grief, and wrong Than that so often told in nursery song, To their sad history does not belong! O lonely wanderers in the great world's wood! Finding the evil where you seek the good, Often deceived and seldom understood-- Lay to your hearts the plaintive tale of old, When skies grow threatening or when loves grow cold, Or something dear is hid beneath the mold! For fates are hard, and hearts are very weak, And roses we have kissed soon leave the cheek, And what we are, we scarcely dare to speak. But something deeper, to reflective eyes, To-day beneath the sad old story lies, And all must read if they are truly wise. A nation wanders in the deep, dark night, By cruel hands despoiled of half its might, And half its truest spirits sick with fright. The world is step-dame--scoffing at the strife, And black assassins, armed with deadly knife, At every step lurk, striking at its life. Shall it be murdered in the gloomy wood? Tell us, O Parent of the True and Good, Whose hand for us the fate has yet withstood! Shall it lie down at last, all weak and faint, Its blood dried up with treason's fever-taint, And offer up its soul in said complaint? Or shall the omen fail, and, rooting out All that has marked its life with fear and doubt, The child spring up to manhood with a shout? So that in other days, when far and wide Other lost children have for succor cried, The one now periled may be help and guide? Father of all the nations formed of men, So let it be! Hold us beneath thy ken, And bring the wanderers to thyself again!