Alfred H. Miles, ed. Women Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.
By The Cry of the HumanElizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–1861)
“T
But none, “There is no sorrow,”
And nature oft the cry of faith,
In bitter need will borrow:
Eyes, which the preacher could not school,
By wayside graves are raisëd,
And lips say, “God be pitiful,”
Who ne’er said, “God be praisëd.”
Be pitiful, O God!
The shadow of its coming,
The beasts grow tame and near us creep,
As help were in the human;
Yet, while the cloud-wheels roll and grind,
We spirits tremble under—
The hills have echoes, but we find
No answer for the thunder.
Be pitiful, O God!
Earth feels new scythes upon her;
We reap our brothers for the wains,
And call the harvest—honour:
Draw face to face, front line to line,
Our image all inherit,—
Then kill, curse on, by that same sign,
Clay—clay, and spirit—spirit.
Be pitiful, O God!
And never a bell is tolling,
And corpses, jostled ’neath the moon,
Nod to the dead-cart’s rolling:
The young child calleth for the cup,
The strong man brings it weeping,
The mother from her babe looks up,
And shrieks away its sleeping.
Be pitiful, O God!
And deep and strong it enters;
This purple chimar which we wear,
Makes madder than the centaur’s:
Our thoughts grow blank, our words grow strange,
We cheer the pale gold-diggers,
Each soul is worth so much on ’Change,
And marked, like sheep, with figures.
Be pitiful, O God!
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!
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!
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 voices, low and breathless,—
“Till death us part!”—O words, to be
Our best, for love the deathless!
Be pitiful, O God!
Of one loved and departed:
Our tears drop on the lips 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!
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
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 or glory.
Be pitiful, O God!
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!
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 strongest,
But now it is the churchyard grass
We look upon the longest.
Be pitiful, O God!
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!