See those skeleton limbs, and those frost-bitten feet,
All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street;
Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell
From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor,
Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of Hell,
As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door;
Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare,
Spoiled children of Fashion--you've nothing to wear!
And O, if perchance there should be a sphere,
Where all is made right which so puzzles us here,
* * * * *
Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense,
Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretence,
Must be clothed for the life and the service above,
With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love;
O daughters of Earth! foolish virgins, beware!
Lest in that upper realm, you have nothing to wear!
* * * * *
=_Bayard Taylor, 1825-._= (Manual, pp. 523, 531.)
From "The Atlantic Monthly."
=_414._= "THE BURDEN OF THE DAY."
I.
Who shall rise and cast away,
First, the Burden of the Day?
Who assert his place, and teach
Lighter labor, nobler speech,
Standing firm, erect, and strong,
Proud as Freedom, free as song?
II.
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