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In 1844 Miss Barrett published her Poems, which, though somewhat impulsive and overwrought, met with remarkable public favor. Such poems as "The Cry of the Children," which voices the protest of humanity against child labor, appealed tremendously to the readers of the age, and this young woman's fame as a poet temporarily overshadowed that of Tennyson and Browning.
The dog had now passed through the crowd. His loud barks of joy had awakened the babe, and it started to cry. Mrs. Trent raised the child in her arms and kissed it. It looked about as if it were seeking something. "You are looking for your mother," said she, "but little do we know where she is. Cry not, my dear, I will be your mother."
Never, whatever happens, cry again; for there is nothing worries me so much, and I want to finish my sleep comfortably." With these words the old Troll collected his long grey beard which had strayed over the sand-hill; and folding it round him, he disappeared in the hole again. Princess Sidigunda did not give herself time to think.
I don't mind you at all, but I wish you'd sit down." "All right." And he returned to his chair beside the trunk. "Go ahead and cry all you want, Edith," he said. "No harm in that!" "Sibyl told mamma OH!" she began, choking.
It was one of the most ominous sounds of the forest, a sound full of ferocity and menace, the howl of the wolf, but they knew it came from human lips, that, in truth, it was a signal ordered by the leader of the besieging band. Presently the reply, a similar cry, came from another point of the compass, traveling like the first on waves of air, until it died away in a savage undernote.
Before he could answer, another wailing sound ascended from the sick-room. Lightning leaped from Renshawe's lustrous, dilated eyes, and the exulting laugh again, but louder, burst from his lips: 'Ha! ha! he fiercely exclaimed. 'I know that cry! It is Death's! Death's! Thrice-blessed Death, whom I have so often ignorantly cursed!
Stepping to a little out-jutting mass of rock, she gave a wild cry, looking across the valley to the nearest house on the opposite slope, fully half a mile away. We could see the people of the house turn out to hear. Then, in a high, clear voice, strangely penetrating, but without harshness or a break or pause for breath, with rising and falling intonation, she cried her message.
There is an old woman who remembers her, at Derrybrien among the Echtge hills, a vast desolate place, which has changed little since the old poem said, "the stag upon the cold summit of Echtge hears the cry of the wolves," but still mindful of many poems and of the dignity of ancient speech.
'One pull more! he seemed to cry; 'one pull more, and it's done.
In fact, so touching were their testimonials to the kindness of the Warden, to the good and varied quality of the food and the cooking, to the gentleness of the guards, and to the general decency and ease and comfort of the prison domicile, that the opposition newspapers of San Francisco raised an indignant cry for more rigour in the management of our prisons, in that, otherwise, honest but lazy citizens would be seduced into seeking enrolment as prison guests.
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