 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
178
THE COURTEZAN.
The brand of shame is on thy brow,
The fire of death is in thy heart,
And infamy hath made thee now
From human things a thing apart:
An outcast from all social ties,
Proud conscious virtue's mock and scorn,
Victim of guilt that never dies—
Oh, better thou hadst ne'er been born.
The fire of death is in thy heart,
And infamy hath made thee now
From human things a thing apart:
An outcast from all social ties,
Proud conscious virtue's mock and scorn,
Victim of guilt that never dies—
Oh, better thou hadst ne'er been born.
The cold smile, that distorts thy cheek,
Only reveals thy darker ruin,
The guilt-seared heart that will not break,
The damned despair of thy undoing:
Like meteor lights in midnight gloom,
Deepening the darkness vainly hid
Within a foul but painted tomb—
A proud but mouldering pyramid.
Only reveals thy darker ruin,
The guilt-seared heart that will not break,
The damned despair of thy undoing:
Like meteor lights in midnight gloom,
Deepening the darkness vainly hid
Within a foul but painted tomb—
A proud but mouldering pyramid.
The purple robes that round thee wave,
Mocking the form they veil, reveal
The riot of a living grave,
The heart that loathes what it must feel;
Remorse that feeds on deep disgrace,
Despair that spurns atonement's power,
Hell pictured in a laughing face,—
All—all the work of one dread hour!
Mocking the form they veil, reveal
The riot of a living grave,
The heart that loathes what it must feel;
Remorse that feeds on deep disgrace,
Despair that spurns atonement's power,
Hell pictured in a laughing face,—
All—all the work of one dread hour!
Thou wanderest in the world's highway
With a bold brow, and lip profane,
Yet dim views of a brighter day
Light up thy bosom's realm of pain;
The painted pallor of thy cheek,
The wasting of thy wanton form,
Tell agony no words can speak,
The gnawing of the poison worm.
With a bold brow, and lip profane,
Yet dim views of a brighter day
Light up thy bosom's realm of pain;
179
The wasting of thy wanton form,
Tell agony no words can speak,
The gnawing of the poison worm.
Barred from the hope that points our way
To happier realms and purer skies,
Thou ever lingerest o'er the day
That sealed thy hopeless agonies,
And as the thought of what thou art
Comes o'er the memory of thy fame,
It leaves a hell within thy heart,
And infamy upon thy name.
To happier realms and purer skies,
Thou ever lingerest o'er the day
That sealed thy hopeless agonies,
And as the thought of what thou art
Comes o'er the memory of thy fame,
It leaves a hell within thy heart,
And infamy upon thy name.
Thy wanton eye—poor child of woe!
Seems lighted at the dæmon's shrine;
It lures to doom—to madness—oh!
To doom and madness such as thine!
Thou art a woman—banned and lost
To all the hopes of woman's fame!
Alas! not hell itself can boast
A fiend like woman doomed to shame.
Seems lighted at the dæmon's shrine;
It lures to doom—to madness—oh!
To doom and madness such as thine!
Thou art a woman—banned and lost
To all the hopes of woman's fame!
Alas! not hell itself can boast
A fiend like woman doomed to shame.
They mock and scorn—I pity thee,
Poor victim of confiding faith!
Affection's martyr—yet not free
To meet the martyr's blessed death!
When in deep anguish thou dost think
Of her that bore, that blessed, that nursed thee,
Oh, can we marvel thou shouldst drink
Oblivion of the hour that cursed thee?
Poor victim of confiding faith!
Affection's martyr—yet not free
To meet the martyr's blessed death!
When in deep anguish thou dost think
Of her that bore, that blessed, that nursed thee,
Oh, can we marvel thou shouldst drink
Oblivion of the hour that cursed thee?
When driven forth from heart and home
By thine unfeeling father's curse,
What but despair could seal thy doom?
Could want atone or make thee worse?
—Frail woman! in thy best estate
Too prone to err—to doubt too true,
On whom shall rest thy penal fate
When in the awful judgement due?
By thine unfeeling father's curse,
What but despair could seal thy doom?
Could want atone or make thee worse?
—Frail woman! in thy best estate
Too prone to err—to doubt too true,
On whom shall rest thy penal fate
When in the awful judgement due?
180
Oh! 't is a fearful thing to view
The dark blight of Love's virgin bloom—
The pale brow wet with death's cold dew—
The warm heart shrouded in the tomb!
Not thy guilt only cast thee forth
A houseless stranger in the world—
But the Fiend's minions—men of Earth
Thee from thy throne of honour hurl'd!
The dark blight of Love's virgin bloom—
The pale brow wet with death's cold dew—
The warm heart shrouded in the tomb!
Not thy guilt only cast thee forth
A houseless stranger in the world—
But the Fiend's minions—men of Earth
Thee from thy throne of honour hurl'd!
They cast thee out—a Magdalen,
Without a hope, without a home,
A scorn and blot till death, and then
A dæmon in the world to come!
—Veiled hypocrites! beware the hour
When ye shall bear the doom ye brand,
The heart, a lyre of godlike power,
Is judged but by a godlike hand.
Without a hope, without a home,
A scorn and blot till death, and then
A dæmon in the world to come!
—Veiled hypocrites! beware the hour
When ye shall bear the doom ye brand,
The heart, a lyre of godlike power,
Is judged but by a godlike hand.
Thy face is gay—thy form is fair,
Thy voice sounds light and cheerful now.
But I read shuddering horror there,
And loathing branded on thy brow.
—Go, go thy ways! nought can redeem
With men the heart that errs like thine;
Lost to earth's heaven—thine own esteem,
—Poor victim to the dæmon's shrine!
Thy voice sounds light and cheerful now.
But I read shuddering horror there,
And loathing branded on thy brow.
—Go, go thy ways! nought can redeem
With men the heart that errs like thine;
Lost to earth's heaven—thine own esteem,
—Poor victim to the dæmon's shrine!
Yet, e'en for thee, in all thy shame,
There's cheering hope still left in heaven,
And in THE Atonement's holy name
Thy years of sin may be forgiven!
E'en when thy heart is breaking—when
Thy hunger loathes the bread of lust,
Though scoffed, and scorned, and cursed by men,
Kneel to thy God! repent and trust!
There's cheering hope still left in heaven,
And in THE Atonement's holy name
Thy years of sin may be forgiven!
E'en when thy heart is breaking—when
Thy hunger loathes the bread of lust,
Though scoffed, and scorned, and cursed by men,
Kneel to thy God! repent and trust!
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |