 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
354
“NO ROOM.”
With tottering steps that would not, yet did, blunder,
So worn and wearied by their endless tramp
Beneath the skies that frowned, on pavements under
The blistered feet that left a stony stamp;
She craved for shelter from the poor, whose portion
Was better than her own forsaken lot,
With lips that trembled in their gray distortion,
For help she needed and discovered not;
A roof to shield her aching head, a haven
Where she might lie a little, and have rest
From the rough blow and more rough word of craven,
For her sore weakness and the troubled breast;
A crust of refuse bread the dog discarded,
To ease the gnawing of the hungry pain,
Sapping the life of want so long unguarded,
That could not bear the torture of the strain;
It was not much she asked her humble neighbour,
Who still could call her own the humble floor,
And earned a pittance for the ill-paid labour,
That kept the wolf of famine from the door;
But from the hearth that gaped with scanty fuel,
Where the dim light but shed a ghastly gloom,
Came back the dirge-like answer, cold and cruel—
“No room.”
So worn and wearied by their endless tramp
Beneath the skies that frowned, on pavements under
The blistered feet that left a stony stamp;
She craved for shelter from the poor, whose portion
Was better than her own forsaken lot,
With lips that trembled in their gray distortion,
For help she needed and discovered not;
A roof to shield her aching head, a haven
Where she might lie a little, and have rest
From the rough blow and more rough word of craven,
For her sore weakness and the troubled breast;
A crust of refuse bread the dog discarded,
To ease the gnawing of the hungry pain,
Sapping the life of want so long unguarded,
That could not bear the torture of the strain;
It was not much she asked her humble neighbour,
Who still could call her own the humble floor,
And earned a pittance for the ill-paid labour,
That kept the wolf of famine from the door;
But from the hearth that gaped with scanty fuel,
Where the dim light but shed a ghastly gloom,
Came back the dirge-like answer, cold and cruel—
“No room.”
With frozen hands, that vainly seemed to wrestle
In its keen scourges with the scornful blast—
That once were warm, and tenderly would nestle
Within a mother's, loving to the last;
With fingers seamed and soiled, that strove to tighten
About her starving frame the paltry tags
Of faded ribands, that now did not brighten
The remnants foul of unprotecting rags;
She craved for kindness from the rich, whose glory
Was rudely thrust upon her dazzled sight,
And mocked the meanness of her stunted story
With insolence of overbearing might;
For just a harbour from the tempest, raging
Around her without promise of a check,
Which might afford one hour's serene assuaging,
To the spent spirit, now a battered wreck;
A smile of welcome for the homeless stranger,
Who had no prospect but the curse of ill,
And human greeting which disarmed the danger,
From hearts that pitied and were human still;
But no reply came from the lofty station,
With all their plenty and rejoicing bloom,
Save that which tolled like sentence of damnation—
“No room.”
In its keen scourges with the scornful blast—
That once were warm, and tenderly would nestle
Within a mother's, loving to the last;
With fingers seamed and soiled, that strove to tighten
About her starving frame the paltry tags
Of faded ribands, that now did not brighten
The remnants foul of unprotecting rags;
She craved for kindness from the rich, whose glory
Was rudely thrust upon her dazzled sight,
And mocked the meanness of her stunted story
With insolence of overbearing might;
For just a harbour from the tempest, raging
Around her without promise of a check,
Which might afford one hour's serene assuaging,
To the spent spirit, now a battered wreck;
A smile of welcome for the homeless stranger,
Who had no prospect but the curse of ill,
And human greeting which disarmed the danger,
From hearts that pitied and were human still;
But no reply came from the lofty station,
With all their plenty and rejoicing bloom,
Save that which tolled like sentence of damnation—
“No room.”
355
With startled eyes that could not hide their terror,
She stumbled on in her ill-fated search
Of mercy for the long-repented error,
If she might find it in some friendly Church;
Within the cloistered refuge, where calm column
Goes upward in its awful prayer of stone,
And angel faces out of sadness solemn
Beam down compassion on the lost and lone;
If priestly mouth might plead for her affliction
With the closed Heaven that darkened on her dearth,
And over broken heart breathe benediction,
To ope again for her a grudging earth;
If in the precincts of the sacred portal,
Her dreadful woe she might at length lay down,
And rise once more to the true life immortal,
In the soft radiance of pure woman's crown;
If she might there give up the ghostly burden,
Which crushed her to a fellowship with mire,
And thence baptized go forth with fairer guerdon
Of hopes that must unto their fount aspire;
But in God's house for her was seen no corner,
Not even the clasp of the caressing tomb,
She heard but pious words that seemed to scorn her—
“No room.”
She stumbled on in her ill-fated search
Of mercy for the long-repented error,
If she might find it in some friendly Church;
Within the cloistered refuge, where calm column
Goes upward in its awful prayer of stone,
And angel faces out of sadness solemn
Beam down compassion on the lost and lone;
If priestly mouth might plead for her affliction
With the closed Heaven that darkened on her dearth,
And over broken heart breathe benediction,
To ope again for her a grudging earth;
If in the precincts of the sacred portal,
Her dreadful woe she might at length lay down,
And rise once more to the true life immortal,
In the soft radiance of pure woman's crown;
If she might there give up the ghostly burden,
Which crushed her to a fellowship with mire,
And thence baptized go forth with fairer guerdon
Of hopes that must unto their fount aspire;
But in God's house for her was seen no corner,
Not even the clasp of the caressing tomb,
She heard but pious words that seemed to scorn her—
“No room.”
And still she staggered on by feebler stages,
With death unveiléd in her anguished look,
As one who grimly turned the closing pages
Of some forgotten and forbidden book;
For her from hall and hut no helpful savour,
While brutes received a proud and honoured seat,
And knaves were never once denied a favour
Sternly refused to her they chose to cheat;
And still she wandered forth to pine and perish,
To envy corpse in its black funeral coach,
Though wealthy shame its sin could lightly cherish,
And none would lift a murmur or reproach;
For her no pity from the high or lowly,
No cup of water and no draught of wine,
And the averted glance of bigots holy,
Who offered incense at a gilded shrine;
Until by madness hounded to the prison,
In desperation of State-aided crime,
Who unto glorious summits might have risen,
If she had only heard love's heavenly chime;
Though wretches who gave her contempt or wonder,
In Heaven itself shall find, by righteous doom—
When the great God speaks out in judgment thunder—
“No room.”
With death unveiléd in her anguished look,
As one who grimly turned the closing pages
Of some forgotten and forbidden book;
For her from hall and hut no helpful savour,
While brutes received a proud and honoured seat,
And knaves were never once denied a favour
Sternly refused to her they chose to cheat;
And still she wandered forth to pine and perish,
To envy corpse in its black funeral coach,
Though wealthy shame its sin could lightly cherish,
And none would lift a murmur or reproach;
For her no pity from the high or lowly,
No cup of water and no draught of wine,
And the averted glance of bigots holy,
Who offered incense at a gilded shrine;
Until by madness hounded to the prison,
In desperation of State-aided crime,
Who unto glorious summits might have risen,
If she had only heard love's heavenly chime;
Though wretches who gave her contempt or wonder,
In Heaven itself shall find, by righteous doom—
When the great God speaks out in judgment thunder—
“No room.”
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |