And she, his successor, has rescued already
    The widow from fire, and the child from the flood;
  For mercy’s her impulse, her policy steady
    Opposes the creed-thralls whose chrism is blood.

  And now the appeal of the Child-Widow reaches
    The ears ever open to misery’s plaint. 
  She thinks—­for the sway of long centuries teaches
    That zeal should not hasten, and patience not faint.

  The child kneeling there at her skirts is the creature
    Of tyrannous ages of creed and of caste;
  She bears, helpless prey of the priest, on each feature. 
    The pitiful brand of a pitiless past.

  Long-wrought, closely knit, subtly swaying, deep-rooted,
    The system whose shadow is over the child;
  By grey superstition debased and imbruted,
    By craft’s callous cruelty deeply defiled.

  But long-swaying custom hath far-reaching issues,
    The hand that assails it doth ill to show haste. 
  The knife that would search poor humanity’s tissues,
    Hath healing for object, not ravage or waste.

  Not coldness, but coolness, sound policy pleads for,
    But, subject to that, human sympathies yearn
  To aid the child-victim the woman’s heart bleeds for,
    For whom a man’s breast with compassion must burn.

  Poor child!  The dark shadow that closely pursues her
    Means menacing Terror; she sues for a shield,
  And how shall the strong AEgis-bearer refuse her? 
    The bondage of caste to calm justice must yield.

  We dare not be deaf to the voice of the pleader
    For freedom and purity, nature and right;
  Let Wisdom, high-throned as controller and leader,
    Meet cruelty’s steel with the shield of calm might!

* * * * *

MY MOTHER BIDS ME DYE MY HAIR.

    [Auburn is said to be the present fashionable colour in hair.]

[Illustration:  The Hazard of the Dye.]

  My Mother bids me dye my hair
    A lovely auburn hue,
  She says I ought to be aware
    It’s quite the thing to do.

  “Why sit,” she cries, “without a smile,
    Whilst others dance instead?”
  Alas! no partners ask me while
    My tresses are not red.

  When no one else at all is near,
    And I am quite alone,
  I sadly shed a bitter tear
    To think the Season’s gone.

  But when the time again draws nigh,
    The time when maidens wed,
  I’m quite resolved to “do and dye”—­
    My tresses shall be red!

* * * * *

TO ENGELBERG AND BACK.

BEING A FEW NOTES TAKEN EN ROUTE IN SEARCH OF A PERFECT CURE.