Women must weep :: :: University of Virginia Library

In a London cellar, grey and grimy,
Where never a sunbeam shone,
Where the snail had left its pathway slimy,
And whence all hope had gone,
Lay a woman—and she was dying, dying,
On a bed of rags and straw;
And the babe at her breast kept crying, crying,
For the food it could not draw.

Her face, like the night with frost, was smitten;
For it looked so sad and old,
Like a faded garment, darkly litten
With a touch of wintry gold.
She had lived, and now was dying, dying,
With the embers on the hearth;
She had toil'd till the end of trying, trying,
And had fought in vain with dearth.

It was only the old and common story,
Of a charmed and cheated trust;
And the conquering eyes had lost their glory,
For the lack of the pauper's crust.
She had loved, and here lay dying, dying,
To the sound of her infant's wail;
And the friendly dust was lying, lying,
On a woman fair and frail.

And that night, within the rich man's portals,
Rang out the festive song;
And he laugh'd and cursed the starving mortals,
He who did the damnèd wrong.
And he danced, while she was dying, dying,
The prey of his wicked art;
And to music time went flying, flying;
But he danced on a broken heart.

And the stars came up, and the stars went under,
Nor illumed that cellar lone;
And the walls of rock might rend asunder,
But not that heart of stone.
He forgot the form that lay dying, dying,
And the soul he taught to err;
For his pampered dog he was buying, buying,
But never a bit for her.

Thou art proud, but still thou art her brother,
Though a crown be on thy head;
And thy wealth belongeth to another,
To the dying and the dead.
But oh! for the poor that lives so lonely,
In his corner cold and dim;
And, oh! for the poor, when the sun shines only
On the rich, and not on him.

In a London cellar, grey and ghostly,
She lay in her bitter need:
She had suffer'd much, she had sorrow'd mostly,
For the babe she could not feed.
And the infant now was dying, dying,
For the want of the rich man's waste;
Though the cup was near to its crying, crying—
So near, but it could not taste.

And the garish gaslight laid its finger,
On the breast with its hopeless load,
As it shook in the blast—but it might not linger,
For it lit the rich man's road.
She was helpless—she was dying, dying,
For the sin of her fatal choice;
And alone in the night was lying, lying,
Within hearing of his voice.

And she strove to weep, but the fount was frozen,
Or the tears of blood would start;
And she strove to sleep, if the dreams would cozen
The sorrow that wrung her heart.

And she pray'd, as she was dying, dying,
For the coward that gave her death;
And her last sad hour went flying, flying,
With a blessing on its breath.

And she fain would move, but her strength was broken,
For she could not a moment turn;
And she fain would speak, but the words unspoken
Were like hidden fires that burn.
And there as she labour'd dying, dying,
Did the kindly shadows fall;
And then tender hands were trying, trying,
To cover her woe and all.

And between the daylight and the dawning,
The rich man went to rest;
And the dog leap'd up to lick him, fawning,
To be as she was once carest.
But the angels saw her dying, dying,
As they gazed in pity down;
And they brought, what is not for buying, buying,
For her and her babe a crown.

But alas! for the man that is no brother,
When he makes of his sin his joy—
When he preys on the weak, and shames another,
And then drops like a shatter'd toy;
It is oh! for the day that has no morrow,
And the path the curse has trod;
It is oh! for the sound of the sea of sorrow,
That breaks at the feet of God.