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Her voice is so weak, that it fails at each word. She hears mother.html">mother.html">mother's crying--but where is the good I pray.html">pray.html">pray you, how long will she sit there and cry How long will it be, do you think, ere her breath How long will this frail one in mother-love strong, The child.html">child mother's tears used to swallow before, Oh, dry are the eyes now, and empty the brain, Yet ever, tho' faintly, she calls out anew: A small, orphaned basket, forsaken, alone. The seller of candles--will nobody mark? The rich ones, on feasting are busily set, Have no time to spare on the gay.html">gay Sabbath eve. And now comes the nightfall, and with it, serene, And all the gay throng to the synagogue wends. Within, where they pray, all is cleanly and bright, But why in a dream stands the tall chandelier, The candles belonged to the woman, you know, The rich and the pious have brought them tonight, The rich and the pious their duty have done: The rich and the pious are nobly behaved: That mother and child died of hunger and cold That men, all unheeded, must starve by the way. The great day of judgment will come at the last. Ye lights for the soul, ye'll be lighted again! And damn the existing false order of things! If but with my pen I could draw him, For he, since the first day I saw him, And ever the pale one is seen, And fights with the soulless machine. I feel, as I gaze at each feature, It is not the strength of the creature,-- They fall o'er his thin cheek in streams, And soak themselves into the seams. How long shall the wheel yet, I pray you, .

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