THE CRY OF THE HUMAN.

"THERE is no God," the foolish saith,

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 raised;
And lips say, God be pitiful,'

That ne'er said, "God be praised."
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 voices 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 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!

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-
est,

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,