Volume I Part 107 (1/2)

V.

But, to see the poor darling go limping for miles To read books to sick people!--and just of an age When girls learn the meaning of ribbons and smiles,-- Makes me feel like a squirrel that turns in a cage.

The more I push thinking, the more I resolve: I never get further:--and as to her face, It starts up when near on my puzzle I solve, And says, ”This crush'd body seems such a sad case.”

VI.

Not that she's for complaining: she reads to earn pence; And from those who can't pay, simple thanks are enough.

Does she leave lamentation for chaps without sense?

Howsoever, she's made up of wonderful stuff.

Ay, the soul in her body must be a stout cord; She sings little hymns at the close of the day, Though she has but three fingers to lift to the Lord, And only one leg to kneel down with to pray.

VII.

What I ask is, Why persecute such a poor dear, If there's law above all? Answer that if you can!

Irreligious I'm not; but I look on this sphere As a place where a man should just think like a man.

It isn't fair dealing! But, contrariwise, Do bullets in battle the wicked select?

Why, then it's all chance-work! And yet, in her eyes, She hold's a fixed something by which I am check'd.

VIII.

Yonder ribbon of suns.h.i.+ne aslope on the wall, If you eye it a minute, 'll have the same look: So kind! and so merciful! G.o.d of us all!

It's the very same lesson we get from thy book.

Then is life but a trial? Is that what is meant?

Some must toil, and some perish, for others below: The injustice to each spreads a common content; Ay! I've lost it again, for it can't be quite so.

IX.

She's the victim of fools: that seems nearer the mark.

On earth there are engines and numerous fools.

Why the Lord can permit them, we're still in the dark; He does, and in some sort of way they're his tools.

It's a roundabout way, with respect let me add, If Molly goes crippled that we may be taught: But, perhaps, it's the only way, though it's so bad; In that case we'll bow down our heads, as we ought.

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X.

But the worst of _me_ is, that when I bow my head, I perceive a thought wriggling away in the dust, And I follow its tracks, quite forgetful, instead Of humble acceptance: for, question I must!

Here's a creature made carefully--carefully made Put together with craft, and then stampt on, and why?

The answer seems nowhere: it's discord that's play'd.

The sky's a blue dis.h.!.+--an implacable sky!

XI.

Stop a moment. I seize an idea from the pit.