The moment that they entered in, He clutched with pallid fear His heavy bags, as if he thought That sudden thieves were near. “Rich man!” said Marien, “ope thy bags And of thy gold be free, Make gladsome cheer, for Heaven hath sent A blessing unto thee!” “What!” said the miser, “is there news Of my lost argosy?” “Better than gold, or merchant-ships, Is that which thou shalt win,” Said Marien, “thine immortal soul From its black load of sin.” “Look at these children, thine own blood,” And then their name she told; “Open thine heart to do them good, To love them more than gold;-- And what thou givest will come back To thee, a thousand-fold!” “Ah,” said the miser, “even these Some gainful work may do, My looms stand still; of youthful hands I have not half enow; I shall have profit in their toil; Yes, child, thy words are true!” “Thou fool!” said Marien, “still for gain, To cast thy soul away! The Lord be judge ’twixt these and thee Upon his reckoning day! “These little ones are fatherless,-- He sees them day and night; And as thou doest unto them, On thee he will requite!” “Gave I not alms upon a time?” Said he, with anger thrilled; “And when I die, give I not gold, A stately church to build? “What wouldst thou more? my flesh and blood I seek not to gainsay, But what I give, is it unmeet Their labour should repay!” So saying, in an iron chest, He locked his bags of gold, And bade the children follow him, In accents harsh and cold. PART X. “Oh leave us not sweet Marien!” The little children spake; “For if thou leave us here, alone, Our wretched hearts will break.” She left them not--kind Marien! And in a noisome room, Day after day, week after week, They laboured at the loom. The while they thought with longing souls Upon the breezy strand, The flying shuttles, to and fro, Passed through each little hand. The while they thought with aching hearts, Upon their parents dear, The growing web was watered, With many a bitter tear. And the sweet memory of the past,-- The white sands stretching wide; Their father’s boat wherein they played, Upon the rocking tide; The sandy shells; the sew-mew’s scream; The ocean’s ceaseless boom; Came to them like a troubling dream, Within the noisy loom. Wo-worth those children, hard bested, A weary life they knew; Their hands were thin’ their cheeks pale, That were of rosy hue. The miser kinsman in and out Passed ever and anon; Nor ever did he speak a word, Except to urge them on.