Select Poetry.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 21, 17 June 1871, Page 18

Select Poetry.

DESOLATE. A woman looked forth from her cottage door, Looked forth as the sun went down, With a child asleep on her arm, and one Just toddling to grasp her gowu. Hers was the stillness, the calm of despair, The weight of the crushing sorrow : To-day has been bitter—she did not dare To hope for a happier morrow. She gazed on the children, then down the vale, Bub never a tear she shed ; She clasped her hands, and her cheek grewpale, As she cried, " Who will give them bread ? The winter is coming and you will heed The wail of the starved, half clad ? Who will succor the soldier beloved in their need ? From whence can supplies be had ? " Surely his lot was to work for them, And not to go forth and fight For the whims of monarchs, who are but men : Who as- oft do wrong as right. Oh, why must his hand be besmeared with blood, Who wishes no ill to his neighbor ? Was not his portion appointed by God, A lifetime of honest labor ? " I watched him go forth in the early dawn, And bade him be brave in the strife, But prayed for the sake of the wee ones at home That God would watch over his life. I asked not for victory—how could I ? The great King of kings will be just; It may be He will suffers the pale horse To trample our foe to the dust. " I asked ib not —could not—nay, would not, For children's hearts clung to them too, And women bend low in their anguish : 6 kings ! do ye know what you do ? They are loved perhaps better than you are With a tenderness gold cannot buy, The men that are food for your cannon— Brave men that you call out to die. ■" O G-od it is hard to be patient, A difficult task to be still; To know that this direful confusion Will work out thy purpose and will. But oh, be Thou merciful Father, In this the dark time of distress : Watch over the desolate children, The widowed ones comfort and bless." LITTLE* THINGS. Do something for each other, ThougWsmall the help may be ; There's comfort oft in little things, Far more than others see. It takes the sorrow from the eye, It leaves the world less bare, If but a friendly hand comes nigh When friendly hands are rare. These cheer the heart that toils each hour, Yet finds it hard to live ; And though but little's in our power, That little let us give. We know not what the humblest hand, If earnest may achieve — How many a sad anxiety A trifle may relieve. We reek not how the aged poor Drag on from day to day, When e'en the little that they need Costs more than they can pay. Then cheer the heart that toils each hour, Yet finds it hard to live ; And though but little's in our power, That little let us give. —" Children's Paper."