 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
THE WOMAN'S HEEL.
Clothed in rags that do not cover,
Shod in boots that do not pair,
With a face that not one lover
Now could ever fancy fair;
Clothed in dirt that is no vesture,
Soiled by fingers fouler still,
Showing in each shadowed gesture
Blight of some polluting ill;
Clothed in shame, that gives but scorning
From the pampered and the proud,
With the sinister adorning,
Of the roses, that are shroud;
Clothed in pain, that fits like fetter
Dragging helpless prisoner down,
Who has found no fortune better
Than a world with hostile frown;
Clothed in sackcloth of the sorrow,
Which provides but famine's feast,
As in night without a morrow;—
Is she aught above the beast?
—She is one who loved and harkened
To the whisper now she lothes,
Till her sun at noon was darkened;
And it's thus the Devil clothes.
Shod in boots that do not pair,
With a face that not one lover
Now could ever fancy fair;
Clothed in dirt that is no vesture,
Soiled by fingers fouler still,
Showing in each shadowed gesture
Blight of some polluting ill;
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From the pampered and the proud,
With the sinister adorning,
Of the roses, that are shroud;
Clothed in pain, that fits like fetter
Dragging helpless prisoner down,
Who has found no fortune better
Than a world with hostile frown;
Clothed in sackcloth of the sorrow,
Which provides but famine's feast,
As in night without a morrow;—
Is she aught above the beast?
—She is one who loved and harkened
To the whisper now she lothes,
Till her sun at noon was darkened;
And it's thus the Devil clothes.
Stript of purity, the tender
Garbing of a maiden's brow,
Brighter than the dazzling splendour,
Which yet veils not broken vow;
Stript of honour, the rare jewel
Dearer than a diamond stone,
By the kindness that is cruel,
Though it steps from prince's throne;
Stript of beauty, the white blossom,
Every woman's sacred right,
In the fond and faithful bosom,
Which has modesty for might;
Stript of fame, that heavenly treasure
Which defies the moth and rust—
Just to yield a moment's pleasure,
To a coward's gilded lust;
Stript of all, that makes a woman
Sweet and lovely in the least,
The Divine within the human;—
Is she aught above the beast?
—She is one who lost her raiment,
When she touched forbidden lips,
But to get the curse repayment;
And it is thus the Devils strips.
Garbing of a maiden's brow,
Brighter than the dazzling splendour,
Which yet veils not broken vow;
Stript of honour, the rare jewel
Dearer than a diamond stone,
By the kindness that is cruel,
Though it steps from prince's throne;
Stript of beauty, the white blossom,
Every woman's sacred right,
In the fond and faithful bosom,
Which has modesty for might;
Stript of fame, that heavenly treasure
Which defies the moth and rust—
Just to yield a moment's pleasure,
To a coward's gilded lust;
Stript of all, that makes a woman
Sweet and lovely in the least,
The Divine within the human;—
Is she aught above the beast?
—She is one who lost her raiment,
When she touched forbidden lips,
But to get the curse repayment;
And it is thus the Devils strips.
Starving in the wild profusion,
Empty and without an aim,
Baffled only by illusion,
Lacking what the dogs may claim;
Starving, if the hands were loaded
With the bribes of wicked wealth,
Grimly by a hunger goaded
Which the guilty stabs in stealth;
Starving, when she most hath taken
Of the plenty earned by sin,
With the throes of famine shaken,
Which erects its court within;
Starving, in the rotten rankness
Which about her flames and flares,
With her pining heart's great blankness
For which no caressing cares;
Starving, with the richest ration
Of the daintiest flower and fruit,
In her awful separation;—
Is she aught above the brute?
—She is one who trusted, tasted,
Just to please the lower needs,
Which to utter dearth have hasted;
And it's thus the Devil feeds.
Empty and without an aim,
Baffled only by illusion,
Lacking what the dogs may claim;
Starving, if the hands were loaded
With the bribes of wicked wealth,
Grimly by a hunger goaded
Which the guilty stabs in stealth;
Starving, when she most hath taken
Of the plenty earned by sin,
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Which erects its court within;
Starving, in the rotten rankness
Which about her flames and flares,
With her pining heart's great blankness
For which no caressing cares;
Starving, with the richest ration
Of the daintiest flower and fruit,
In her awful separation;—
Is she aught above the brute?
—She is one who trusted, tasted,
Just to please the lower needs,
Which to utter dearth have hasted;
And it's thus the Devil feeds.
Bought, for kisses cold and venal,
Which despoil her of her strength,
By the pleasure that is penal,
And must surely kill at length;
Bought, for vice's cloying honey,
And the poisoned silver bowls,
With the bitter blood-stained money,
Which is ever price of souls;
Bought, when heavenly truth was calling,
By the gay and glittering lie,
For the worse than tomb's enthralling,
For a moment's feast to die;
Bought, by any careless rover,
Who the harlot's fee can give,
And again (though life is over)
With corruption's worms to live;
Bought, by praise that axe is whetting
Now, against the shining shoot,
To the woe beyond forgetting;—
Is she aught above the brute?
—She is one who weakly trifled
With the pretty primrose ways,
Woke to see her glories rifled;
And it's thus the Devil pays.
Which despoil her of her strength,
By the pleasure that is penal,
And must surely kill at length;
Bought, for vice's cloying honey,
And the poisoned silver bowls,
With the bitter blood-stained money,
Which is ever price of souls;
Bought, when heavenly truth was calling,
By the gay and glittering lie,
For the worse than tomb's enthralling,
For a moment's feast to die;
Bought, by any careless rover,
Who the harlot's fee can give,
And again (though life is over)
With corruption's worms to live;
Bought, by praise that axe is whetting
Now, against the shining shoot,
To the woe beyond forgetting;—
Is she aught above the brute?
—She is one who weakly trifled
With the pretty primrose ways,
Woke to see her glories rifled;
And it's thus the Devil pays.
Sold, who had the high anointing
Of the holy virgin head,
To the dust of disappointing,
And a trysting with the dead;
Sold, who should have reigned for ever,
By the service of pure hands,
To the ties that only sever,
And the freedom that is bands;
Sold, who gave her hour of leisure,
Meant for calmer sweeter joy,
To false weights and scanty measure,
Though she were a monarch's toy;
Sold, to greedy lust that levels
Fairest fashion to its mire,
And in dance of corpses revels,
With her secret heart of fire;
Sold, by him who should have guarded
Grace just bursting from the bud,
As from button-hole discarded;—
Is she aught above the mud?
—She is one, who lightly counted
Not the cost of passion's beats,
As the marble steps she mounted;
And it's thus the Devil cheats.
Of the holy virgin head,
To the dust of disappointing,
And a trysting with the dead;
Sold, who should have reigned for ever,
By the service of pure hands,
To the ties that only sever,
And the freedom that is bands;
Sold, who gave her hour of leisure,
Meant for calmer sweeter joy,
To false weights and scanty measure,
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Sold, to greedy lust that levels
Fairest fashion to its mire,
And in dance of corpses revels,
With her secret heart of fire;
Sold, by him who should have guarded
Grace just bursting from the bud,
As from button-hole discarded;—
Is she aught above the mud?
—She is one, who lightly counted
Not the cost of passion's beats,
As the marble steps she mounted;
And it's thus the Devil cheats.
Fooled, just at the height of fortune,
On the homeless waters cast,
Left a shipwreck, to importune
Mercy vainly of the blast;
Fooled, when all seemed gained, and summer
Beamed on her with witching glance,
Sounding welcome, as the drummer
Bids a bannered host advance;
Fooled, though she had grown so wiser,
And turned every step to gold,
Sport of ruffian and despiser,
Or the pity that is cold;
Fooled, by friends with whom she mated,
And divided once her purse,
Chucked to wounds of foes unsated,—
Charity, whose gifts are worse;
Fooled, through lights she fain would follow,
Which no heavenly temple stud,
Only sky of Fashion hollow;—
Is she aught above the mud?
—She is one, who first but fingered
Just the hem of doubtful days,
Lost because she looked and lingered;
And it's thus the Devil slays.
On the homeless waters cast,
Left a shipwreck, to importune
Mercy vainly of the blast;
Fooled, when all seemed gained, and summer
Beamed on her with witching glance,
Sounding welcome, as the drummer
Bids a bannered host advance;
Fooled, though she had grown so wiser,
And turned every step to gold,
Sport of ruffian and despiser,
Or the pity that is cold;
Fooled, by friends with whom she mated,
And divided once her purse,
Chucked to wounds of foes unsated,—
Charity, whose gifts are worse;
Fooled, through lights she fain would follow,
Which no heavenly temple stud,
Only sky of Fashion hollow;—
Is she aught above the mud?
—She is one, who first but fingered
Just the hem of doubtful days,
Lost because she looked and lingered;
And it's thus the Devil slays.
Ah, now draw aside the curtain
Infamy has round her cast,
Out of horror, dim, uncertain,
Let her be herself at last;
Scrape off vices, which have rusted
Over the once queenly frame,
Moral filth and rot, encrusted
In the purple rags of shame;
Strike away the chains that cumber
Feeble steps in weary strife,
Till she starts from prison slumber,
Yet again to gracious life;
Salve with solace her poor blindness,
And unclose the clouded ears,
Feed her with the milk of kindness,
Wash her in compassion's tears;
For though sin hath set its token,
On her erring human heel,
Still her spirit is unbroken,
Still as woman she can feel;
Yea, the Seed of woman, glorious
Flowering from the awful dead,
Over sin and hell victorious,
Yet shall bruise the Serpent's head.
Infamy has round her cast,
Out of horror, dim, uncertain,
Let her be herself at last;
Scrape off vices, which have rusted
Over the once queenly frame,
Moral filth and rot, encrusted
In the purple rags of shame;
Strike away the chains that cumber
Feeble steps in weary strife,
Till she starts from prison slumber,
Yet again to gracious life;
338
And unclose the clouded ears,
Feed her with the milk of kindness,
Wash her in compassion's tears;
For though sin hath set its token,
On her erring human heel,
Still her spirit is unbroken,
Still as woman she can feel;
Yea, the Seed of woman, glorious
Flowering from the awful dead,
Over sin and hell victorious,
Yet shall bruise the Serpent's head.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |