 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
BROKEN HEARTS.
What is the burden of that plea,
The murmur like a hungry sea
I heard when first a child;
Now tolling as a burial bell,
Now shadowed to a tiny shell,
Which shuts the ocean wild?
For ever young, for ever old,
And awful as the hills, and cold
As the eternal frost;
If higher than the highest stars,
Yet deeper than infernal bars,
In the same surging tost?
And grimly keeping
Its watch unsleeping
Beside the cradle of creations new,
While under all the glorious flower,
The crown and rapture of rejoicing dew,
It bears the dark and solemn dower
Of the dissolving doom,
Even in the spring of bloom—
Foretells the crumbling of the giant tower,
At morn the midnight gloom?
The murmur like a hungry sea
I heard when first a child;
Now tolling as a burial bell,
Now shadowed to a tiny shell,
Which shuts the ocean wild?
For ever young, for ever old,
And awful as the hills, and cold
As the eternal frost;
If higher than the highest stars,
Yet deeper than infernal bars,
In the same surging tost?
And grimly keeping
Its watch unsleeping
Beside the cradle of creations new,
While under all the glorious flower,
The crown and rapture of rejoicing dew,
It bears the dark and solemn dower
Of the dissolving doom,
Even in the spring of bloom—
Foretells the crumbling of the giant tower,
At morn the midnight gloom?
It is the restless cry of need,
Wrung from the breaking hearts that bleed
Beneath their iron tie,
That pine for labour which is not,
For love which is the idler's lot,
And would but cannot die;
The cry for daily work, more dread
From bosoms in which hope is dead,
Than any ghastly doubt,
Or (shaking pampered princely shades,
And from red reeking barricades)
Grim revolution's shout;
The cry of anguish,
From souls that languish
And lie in helpless want and worse than poor,
In the lone cellar dark and dim,
Or in the gutter at the rich man's door,
And not a morsel get from him;
Though petted crime doth feast,
Nor ever lack the least,
While dainty dogs may sate each greedy whim,
And plenty spoils the beast.
Wrung from the breaking hearts that bleed
Beneath their iron tie,
That pine for labour which is not,
For love which is the idler's lot,
And would but cannot die;
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From bosoms in which hope is dead,
Than any ghastly doubt,
Or (shaking pampered princely shades,
And from red reeking barricades)
Grim revolution's shout;
The cry of anguish,
From souls that languish
And lie in helpless want and worse than poor,
In the lone cellar dark and dim,
Or in the gutter at the rich man's door,
And not a morsel get from him;
Though petted crime doth feast,
Nor ever lack the least,
While dainty dogs may sate each greedy whim,
And plenty spoils the beast.
It is the cry of woman, torn
Into the night without a morn,
The world without a sun;
Because the breathing earth and air,
And heavenly light have made them fair,
And streams that singing run—
Because the grace, that they should hold
More precious than refinèd gold,
To serve God's holy plan,
Was blackly warped and waxed a curse
Direr than despots' blood-filled purse,
To them and guiltier man;
The cry of sorrow
That sees no morrow,
And sinks more sadly in the human mud,
And grows more passionate and shrill,
Because the life may not put forth one bud,
In its gray gaunt enchaining ill;
While none lifts helping hand,
And sisters fouler stand
Close to them, proud and undetected still,
Whose jewels hide the brand.
Into the night without a morn,
The world without a sun;
Because the breathing earth and air,
And heavenly light have made them fair,
And streams that singing run—
Because the grace, that they should hold
More precious than refinèd gold,
To serve God's holy plan,
Was blackly warped and waxed a curse
Direr than despots' blood-filled purse,
To them and guiltier man;
The cry of sorrow
That sees no morrow,
And sinks more sadly in the human mud,
And grows more passionate and shrill,
Because the life may not put forth one bud,
In its gray gaunt enchaining ill;
While none lifts helping hand,
And sisters fouler stand
Close to them, proud and undetected still,
Whose jewels hide the brand.
It is the cry of children weak,
Who only cry and cannot speak,
And children but in name,
Who unto Moloch's hideous lust,
Sacrificed in their maiden trust,
Pass through the hellish flame;
The cry of women-babes, that yet
Uncradled and unmothered fret,
And a chill shadow fall
Upon the banquet of the knave,
Whose love is fiercer than the grave—
As on Belshazzar's wall,
The fate indited
Fell uninvited,
And the dark fingers of the Dark Hand traced,
Amid the shining of the show,
The judgment sentence which as night embraced
The pageant's pompous ebb and flow;
The cry of children, flowers
Snatched from their virgin bowers,
Who ere they pass to silent gulfs below,
Protest they yet are ours.
Who only cry and cannot speak,
And children but in name,
Who unto Moloch's hideous lust,
Sacrificed in their maiden trust,
Pass through the hellish flame;
The cry of women-babes, that yet
Uncradled and unmothered fret,
And a chill shadow fall
Upon the banquet of the knave,
Whose love is fiercer than the grave—
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The fate indited
Fell uninvited,
And the dark fingers of the Dark Hand traced,
Amid the shining of the show,
The judgment sentence which as night embraced
The pageant's pompous ebb and flow;
The cry of children, flowers
Snatched from their virgin bowers,
Who ere they pass to silent gulfs below,
Protest they yet are ours.
And shall that hopeless cry go on,
While titled harlots yet may don
Lace, that refines the shame,
And purple which is given as price
For varnished and protected vice,
Allowed to nobler fame?
Ah, must the humble who are frail,
For ever bear the ache and ail,
While men have human hearts?
Do we forget our sisters' cross
Is all our own exceeding loss,
And we have brothers' parts,
To do our duty,
And love is beauty,
Which still transfigures even the meanest lot,
And glory showers upon the dearth,
That was a howling blank or dismal blot,
And recreates the fallen earth?
Oh, to that bitter cry
Send back a blest reply,
Which to the dead shall give a second birth,
And ope the bolted sky.
While titled harlots yet may don
Lace, that refines the shame,
And purple which is given as price
For varnished and protected vice,
Allowed to nobler fame?
Ah, must the humble who are frail,
For ever bear the ache and ail,
While men have human hearts?
Do we forget our sisters' cross
Is all our own exceeding loss,
And we have brothers' parts,
To do our duty,
And love is beauty,
Which still transfigures even the meanest lot,
And glory showers upon the dearth,
That was a howling blank or dismal blot,
And recreates the fallen earth?
Oh, to that bitter cry
Send back a blest reply,
Which to the dead shall give a second birth,
And ope the bolted sky.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |