 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
A PÆAN OF THE PAVEMENT.
They have sucked of the sweetness of labour,
And then spurned at the ladders that lift,
For they loved not their lowlier neighbour,
Who enthroned them by patience and thrift;
They have trodden us down to the pavement,
While they mocked at our pitiful need,
Though our lives with their utter enslavement,
Have conspired all their follies to feed;
They have played and abused their long innings,
As if never were turning of tide,
And the wretches who reaped them their winnings
Have been kicked as the rubbish aside;
They have fared on the cream and the honey,
And our drudging has loaded their shelves,
Not a piece of their ill-gotten money
Have they made by one effort themselves;
They have fattened on children left crying,
Whom they clothed not and plundered as prey;
And at length in their course they are dying,
They are brought to the judgment—yes, they;
They have come to the sentence Supernal,
And lie helpless as prisoners bound,
They are weighed in the balance Eternal,
And have wanting in all things been found.
And then spurned at the ladders that lift,
For they loved not their lowlier neighbour,
Who enthroned them by patience and thrift;
They have trodden us down to the pavement,
While they mocked at our pitiful need,
Though our lives with their utter enslavement,
Have conspired all their follies to feed;
They have played and abused their long innings,
As if never were turning of tide,
And the wretches who reaped them their winnings
Have been kicked as the rubbish aside;
They have fared on the cream and the honey,
And our drudging has loaded their shelves,
Not a piece of their ill-gotten money
Have they made by one effort themselves;
They have fattened on children left crying,
Whom they clothed not and plundered as prey;
And at length in their course they are dying,
They are brought to the judgment—yes, they;
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And lie helpless as prisoners bound,
They are weighed in the balance Eternal,
And have wanting in all things been found.
Shall we pity them, now they are troubled
By disaster not dreamed of or known;
While the burdens, that on us they doubled,
Have recoiled and are waxing their own?
If they worked for the wages of Fashion,
Which is fickle and chastens them thus,
Must we offer the sigh of compassion,
And the aid they denied unto us?
When the knell of confusion grows louder,
And is shattered their power as a toy—
When the faces grow pale through their powder,
Must we give them the roses of joy?
Though we hear the wild shout of despairing,
As of wrecks on an iron-girt shore,
Is it we who must lend them repairing,
Which will make them our masters once more?
Should they pass from all knowledge and perish,
If the earth ever wipe out their stain,
Must the girls, whom they swore so to cherish
And betrayed, raise their ruin again?
They are falling before the true voices,
Which their pride but so lately contemned,
And the heart of the people rejoices,
That their tyrants at last are condemned.
By disaster not dreamed of or known;
While the burdens, that on us they doubled,
Have recoiled and are waxing their own?
If they worked for the wages of Fashion,
Which is fickle and chastens them thus,
Must we offer the sigh of compassion,
And the aid they denied unto us?
When the knell of confusion grows louder,
And is shattered their power as a toy—
When the faces grow pale through their powder,
Must we give them the roses of joy?
Though we hear the wild shout of despairing,
As of wrecks on an iron-girt shore,
Is it we who must lend them repairing,
Which will make them our masters once more?
Should they pass from all knowledge and perish,
If the earth ever wipe out their stain,
Must the girls, whom they swore so to cherish
And betrayed, raise their ruin again?
They are falling before the true voices,
Which their pride but so lately contemned,
And the heart of the people rejoices,
That their tyrants at last are condemned.
They have feasted on sorrow and famine,
Though the sob of the orphan rose up,
Which they liked not to own or examine,
If the wine only flashed in their cup;
From her home they have tempted the daughter,
With the promise which was but a lie,
As a lamb that is led to the slaughter,
And goes leaping and trustful—to die;
They have revelled, while bosoms were aching
For the solace that vainly they sought,
And have danced on the hearts that were breaking,
Because nobody gave them a thought;
The poor widow they thrust to a distance,
To escape her importunate wail,
And to beggars they showed no assistance,
Unless sometimes they helped them to jail;
They have drowned all the anguish of labour,
In the glory of music and song,
And with jubilant trumpet and tabor,
They have muffled the curses of wrong;
But the blight has now entered their border,
And the paint is unmasked of its bloom—
Yes, the ancient and reprobate order,
Which has failed, is descending to doom.
Though the sob of the orphan rose up,
Which they liked not to own or examine,
If the wine only flashed in their cup;
From her home they have tempted the daughter,
With the promise which was but a lie,
As a lamb that is led to the slaughter,
And goes leaping and trustful—to die;
They have revelled, while bosoms were aching
For the solace that vainly they sought,
And have danced on the hearts that were breaking,
Because nobody gave them a thought;
The poor widow they thrust to a distance,
To escape her importunate wail,
And to beggars they showed no assistance,
Unless sometimes they helped them to jail;
They have drowned all the anguish of labour,
In the glory of music and song,
And with jubilant trumpet and tabor,
They have muffled the curses of wrong;
But the blight has now entered their border,
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Yes, the ancient and reprobate order,
Which has failed, is descending to doom.
Do we weep at the ravishers' ending,
Who are going the way of their class—
Who have nothing now left for their spending,
And discover their fortress is glass?
Can we mourn them, whose mercies were cruel,
And their victims ground into the dust;
When the virgins they robbed were but fuel,
For the fire of their infamous lust?
May we fence them from falling, who cared not
For the wolf at the cottager's door;
And who spoiled all the weaker, and spared not
The one little ewe lamb of the poor?
Shall we miss them, who grudged the mere pittance
That they paid for our terrible toil;
And who chose for themselves an acquittance,
From the darlings they boasted to soil?
Must we patch them up still with our struggling,
To return to their rapine and sloth;
And now harken to cowardly juggling,
When they broke without pity their troth?
No, the life of our rulers is rotten,
And the gilt cannot cover the knaves;
While the blood of our dead, unforgotten,
Cries for vengeance from thousands of graves.
Who are going the way of their class—
Who have nothing now left for their spending,
And discover their fortress is glass?
Can we mourn them, whose mercies were cruel,
And their victims ground into the dust;
When the virgins they robbed were but fuel,
For the fire of their infamous lust?
May we fence them from falling, who cared not
For the wolf at the cottager's door;
And who spoiled all the weaker, and spared not
The one little ewe lamb of the poor?
Shall we miss them, who grudged the mere pittance
That they paid for our terrible toil;
And who chose for themselves an acquittance,
From the darlings they boasted to soil?
Must we patch them up still with our struggling,
To return to their rapine and sloth;
And now harken to cowardly juggling,
When they broke without pity their troth?
No, the life of our rulers is rotten,
And the gilt cannot cover the knaves;
While the blood of our dead, unforgotten,
Cries for vengeance from thousands of graves.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |