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 voice is 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 lids 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!

  The happy children come to us,
    And look up in our faces: 
  They ask us—­Was it thus, and thus,
    When we were in their places? 
  We cannot speak:—­we see anew
    The hills we used to live in;
  And feel our mother’s smile press through
    The kisses she is giving. 
          Be pitiful, O God!

We pray together at the kirk,
For mercy, mercy, solely—­
Hands weary with the evil work,
We lift them to the Holy! 
The corpse is calm below our knee—­
Its spirit bright before thee—­
Between them, worse than either, we—­
Without the rest of glory! 
Be pitiful, O God!

We leave the communing of men,
The murmur of the passions;
And live alone, to live again
With endless generations. 
Are we so brave?—­The sea and sky
In silence lift their mirrors;
And, glassed therein, our spirits high
Recoil from their own terrors. 
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;
  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,
    Look up and triumph rather—­
  Lo! in the depth of God’s Divine,
    The Son adjures the Father—­
          BE PITIFUL, O GOD.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

* * * * *

THE SIFTING OF PETER.

    A FOLK-SONG.

    “Behold, Satan hath desired to have you, that he may sift you
    as wheat.”—­LUKE xxii. 31.

  In Saint Luke’s Gospel we are told
  How Peter in the days of old
      Was sifted;
  And now, though ages intervene,
  Sin is the same, while time and scene
      Are shifted.

  Satan desires us, great and small,
  As wheat, to sift us, and we all
      Are tempted;
  Not one, however rich or great,
  Is by his station or estate
      Exempted.