The curse of gold upon the land, The lack of bread enforces-- The rail-cars snort from strand to strand, Like more of Death's White Horses: The rich preach "rights" and future days, And hear no angel scoffing: The poor die mute--with starving gaze On corn-ships in the offing. Be pitiful, O God! We meet together at the feast-- To private mirth betake us-- We stare down in the winecup lest Some vacant chair should shake us! We name delight, and pledge it round-- "It shall be ours to-morrow!" God's seraphs, do your voices sound As sad in naming sorrow? Be pitiful, O God! We sit together, with the skies, The steadfast skies, above us: We look into each other's eyes, "And how long will you love us?" The eyes grow dim with prophecy, The voice is low and breathless-- "Till death us part!"--O words, to be Our _best_ for love the deathless! Be pitiful, dear God! We tremble by the harmless bed Of one loved and departed-- Our tears drop on the lids that said Last night, "Be stronger hearted!" O God,--to clasp those fingers close, And yet to feel so lonely!-- To see a light upon such brows, Which is the daylight only! Be pitiful, O God! The happy children come to us, And look up in our faces: They ask us--Was it thus, and thus, When we were in their places? We cannot speak:--we see anew The hills we used to live in; And feel our mother's smile press through The kisses she is giving. Be pitiful, O God! We pray together at the kirk, For mercy, mercy, solely-- Hands weary with the evil work, We lift them to the Holy! The corpse is calm below our knee-- Its spirit bright before thee-- Between them, worse than either, we-- Without the rest of glory! Be pitiful, O God! We leave the communing of men, The murmur of the passions; And live alone, to live again With endless generations. Are we so brave?--The sea and sky In silence lift their mirrors; And, glassed therein, our spirits high Recoil from their own terrors. Be pitiful, O God! We sit on hills our childhood wist, Woods, hamlets, streams, beholding: The sun strikes through the farthest mist, The city's spire to golden. The city's golden spire it was, When hope and health were strong; But now it is the churchyard grass, We look upon the longest. Be pitiful, O God! And soon all vision waxeth dull-- Men whisper, "He is dying": We cry no more, "Be pitiful!"-- We have no strength for crying: No strength, no need! Then, Soul of mine, Look up and triumph rather-- Lo! in the depth of God's Divine, The Son adjures the Father-- BE PITIFUL, O GOD. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. * * * * * THE SIFTING OF PETER. A FOLK-SONG.