Tell us—poor gray-haired children that we are—
Tell us some story of the days afar,
Down shining through the years like sun and star.
The stories that, when we were very young,
Like golden beads on lips of wisdom hung,
At fireside told or by the cradle sung.
Not Cinderella with the tiny shoe,
Nor Harsan's carpet that through distance flew,
Nor Jack the Giant-Killer's derring-do.
Not even the little lady of the Hood,
But something sadder—easier understood—
The ballad of the Children in the Wood.
Poor babes! the cruel uncle lives again,
To whom their little voices plead in vain—
Who sent them forth to be by ruffians slain.
The hapless agent of the guilt is here—
From whose seared heart their pleading brought a tear—
Who could not strike, but fled away in fear.
And hand in hand the wanderers, left alone,
Through the dense forest make their feeble moan,
Fed on the berries—pillowed on a stone.
Still hand in hand, till little feet grow sore,
And fails the feeble strength their limbs that bore;
Then they lie down, and feel the pangs no more.
The stars shine down in pity from the sky;
The night-bird marks their fate with plaintive cry;
The dew-drop wets their parched lips ere they die.
There clasped they lie—death's poor, unripened sheaves—
Till the red robin through the tree-top grieves,
And flutters down and covers them with leaves.