 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
THE WILD ROSE OF DEVON.
Down in meadows, where the streams meander,
Bright, and laughing is the lea—
Loud, that many a great and good commander
Bore, to wed the virgin sea;
Where red apples hang, and stepping stately
Red rocks scale the azure sky,
And the red kine rest or feed sedately,
As the rushing world goes by;
Like a white rose that had dropped from Heaven,
Shaped by larger light and air,
Grew in glory the “Wild Rose of Devon,”
Fresh and fair.
Bright, and laughing is the lea—
Loud, that many a great and good commander
Bore, to wed the virgin sea;
Where red apples hang, and stepping stately
Red rocks scale the azure sky,
And the red kine rest or feed sedately,
As the rushing world goes by;
Like a white rose that had dropped from Heaven,
Shaped by larger light and air,
Grew in glory the “Wild Rose of Devon,”
Fresh and fair.
Brave her fathers fought, beneath that banner
Called the Cross, which cannot yield—
Fought with sin, in the old fearless manner,
Proved on each old bloody field;
Soldiers of the Captain, who wins laurels
From a sterner better strife,
Giving a grand meaning to dead morals,
And to dying souls new life;
Schooled by them, she gathered truer beauty,
Hate of every ill and wrong,
Learnt to love and do whate'er was duty,
Pure and strong.
Called the Cross, which cannot yield—
Fought with sin, in the old fearless manner,
Proved on each old bloody field;
Soldiers of the Captain, who wins laurels
From a sterner better strife,
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And to dying souls new life;
Schooled by them, she gathered truer beauty,
Hate of every ill and wrong,
Learnt to love and do whate'er was duty,
Pure and strong.
So she grew the darling child of Nature,
Drinking in, at every sense,
All good things of God's high legislature,
Each sweet wholesome influence;
Taught more truths by sunshine and the saddle,
Than the lore of dusty books,
Or from happy hours, when she could paddle
Fair white feet in bubbling brooks;
Trained to make her own her neighbour's distress,
Aching bosom, empty shelf,
But in mercy to remain the mistress
Of herself.
Drinking in, at every sense,
All good things of God's high legislature,
Each sweet wholesome influence;
Taught more truths by sunshine and the saddle,
Than the lore of dusty books,
Or from happy hours, when she could paddle
Fair white feet in bubbling brooks;
Trained to make her own her neighbour's distress,
Aching bosom, empty shelf,
But in mercy to remain the mistress
Of herself.
Yearly did she put forth rarer petal,
Softer bloom and daintier bud,
Free from meanness, as refinéd metal,
Purged of darkening dross or mud;
In the chase, though feebler wills might falter,
Gaining courage that was true,
And a deeper faith when at the altar
Kneeling for the holier due;
In the dance despising not the blessing,
Yielded by the spell of art,
And through all in patience yet possessing
Pure her heart.
Softer bloom and daintier bud,
Free from meanness, as refinéd metal,
Purged of darkening dross or mud;
In the chase, though feebler wills might falter,
Gaining courage that was true,
And a deeper faith when at the altar
Kneeling for the holier due;
In the dance despising not the blessing,
Yielded by the spell of art,
And through all in patience yet possessing
Pure her heart.
Rich admirers courted her, and plenty
Offered of their own rich will,
Vainly to the joy of “sweet and twenty,”
Fond of maiden freedom still;
Vainly titles wooed, and fain would flatter
Fancied weakness with their bribe,
Coaxing her by false and fulsome chatter,
Fluent jest or playful jibe;
Vainly suitors pleaded the old story,
That the stoutest well might stir—
For no vision, even of gold or glory,
Tempted her.
Offered of their own rich will,
Vainly to the joy of “sweet and twenty,”
Fond of maiden freedom still;
Vainly titles wooed, and fain would flatter
Fancied weakness with their bribe,
Coaxing her by false and fulsome chatter,
Fluent jest or playful jibe;
Vainly suitors pleaded the old story,
That the stoutest well might stir—
For no vision, even of gold or glory,
Tempted her.
Till, from worthless pomp and wicked splendour,
Which a frailer breast would storm,
Came a thing that yet had pulses tender
Creeping forth with crippled form;
Scarce of gentle blood, and marred in feature,
Without dignity or plan,
An unfinished and mis-shapen creature,
Mere apology for man;
Yet who dared to love her in his fashion,
With allegiance deep but dim;
And her heart, in greatness of compassion,
Turned to him.
Which a frailer breast would storm,
Came a thing that yet had pulses tender
Creeping forth with crippled form;
Scarce of gentle blood, and marred in feature,
Without dignity or plan,
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Mere apology for man;
Yet who dared to love her in his fashion,
With allegiance deep but dim;
And her heart, in greatness of compassion,
Turned to him.
Yes, to his poor stammering tale she listened,
Proudly placed in his her hand,
As in glorious eyes unwonted glistened
Tears that snapt his prison band;
And her breast untouched before by pleading,
Scorning to be prince's toy,
Loth to follow wealth or title's leading,
Gave to him its maiden joy;
While his stunted earth was turned to Heaven,
When she smiled upon his call,
And a cripple the “Wild Rose of Devon”
Chose from all.
Proudly placed in his her hand,
As in glorious eyes unwonted glistened
Tears that snapt his prison band;
And her breast untouched before by pleading,
Scorning to be prince's toy,
Loth to follow wealth or title's leading,
Gave to him its maiden joy;
While his stunted earth was turned to Heaven,
When she smiled upon his call,
And a cripple the “Wild Rose of Devon”
Chose from all.
But sore sickness, doomed to be his master,
Fell upon that feeble frame,
Brought him bridal portion of disaster,
Ere she could assume his name;
Broke the bending form, and wildly scattered,
Rising hope and radiant dream,
Till the fragile tenement was shattered,
By the shadow without gleam;
Though the God, whose wisdom makes no error,
Saw his little work was done,
When the angel, miscalled death by terror,
Claimed that one.
Fell upon that feeble frame,
Brought him bridal portion of disaster,
Ere she could assume his name;
Broke the bending form, and wildly scattered,
Rising hope and radiant dream,
Till the fragile tenement was shattered,
By the shadow without gleam;
Though the God, whose wisdom makes no error,
Saw his little work was done,
When the angel, miscalled death by terror,
Claimed that one.
Then, as by a lurid flash of lightning,
On a pilgrim's midnight way,
Came a lesson all her future brightning,
With a new unearthly ray;
When she knew, the truth in trouble spelling
God alone must be her guest,
Royal hearts were the Eternal's dwelling,
And no other could give rest;
When she saw by intuition clearest,
Beauty, if it queenly trod,
Was not meant for any man, though dearest,
But for God.
On a pilgrim's midnight way,
Came a lesson all her future brightning,
With a new unearthly ray;
When she knew, the truth in trouble spelling
God alone must be her guest,
Royal hearts were the Eternal's dwelling,
And no other could give rest;
When she saw by intuition clearest,
Beauty, if it queenly trod,
Was not meant for any man, though dearest,
But for God.
Then, though had to her oped palace portal,
All the glamour earth can give
Fools, who think to cheat the sentence mortal
Thus, and make believe they live;
Though again hers might have been the treasure,
Rank and riches, and the light
Shed on darkness by each passing pleasure,
Ere it vanish into night;
Yet she chose the furnace fed by trial,
Which could her bring nowise gain,
Chose the sceptre of divine denial,
Crown of pain.
All the glamour earth can give
Fools, who think to cheat the sentence mortal
Thus, and make believe they live;
Though again hers might have been the treasure,
Rank and riches, and the light
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Ere it vanish into night;
Yet she chose the furnace fed by trial,
Which could her bring nowise gain,
Chose the sceptre of divine denial,
Crown of pain.
In the hospital she took her station,
By the bedside of the sick,
With the largeness of a dedication,
That to suffering's want was quick;
There she eased the tossing of affliction,
With the calm of queenly hand,
Moving like the peace of benediction,
In the love that was command;
There she fought the fight, and bore the burden
Left a weary world by sin,
Won through woe from Calvary the guerdon
Few may win.
By the bedside of the sick,
With the largeness of a dedication,
That to suffering's want was quick;
There she eased the tossing of affliction,
With the calm of queenly hand,
Moving like the peace of benediction,
In the love that was command;
There she fought the fight, and bore the burden
Left a weary world by sin,
Won through woe from Calvary the guerdon
Few may win.
Thus she gave her splendid life for others,
Let its beauty and its bloom
Shine upon her sick and suffering brothers,
Who without her had but gloom;
Gave her woman's wealth of grand devotion
To the souls in bondage set,
If to kindle just one glad emotion,
In one heart that men forget;
Gave the strength that might have been enstated
High in royal place and deed,
Liberty and love, all consecrated
Unto need.
Let its beauty and its bloom
Shine upon her sick and suffering brothers,
Who without her had but gloom;
Gave her woman's wealth of grand devotion
To the souls in bondage set,
If to kindle just one glad emotion,
In one heart that men forget;
Gave the strength that might have been enstated
High in royal place and deed,
Liberty and love, all consecrated
Unto need.
There unnoticed and unfamed she wrestled
Boldly with disease and ill,
Nursed the babe that to her bosom nestled,
Dealt the vilest loving skill;
Waged the war, not trumpeted by story,
Studied not by public heed,
Carried out on fields of báttle gory,
But with pity's saving deed;
Waiting ever, as could woman only,
When seemed desperate the fight,
Shedding upon wretches lost and lonely
Heavenly light.
Boldly with disease and ill,
Nursed the babe that to her bosom nestled,
Dealt the vilest loving skill;
Waged the war, not trumpeted by story,
Studied not by public heed,
Carried out on fields of báttle gory,
But with pity's saving deed;
Waiting ever, as could woman only,
When seemed desperate the fight,
Shedding upon wretches lost and lonely
Heavenly light.
There, with scanty sleep and food, unswerving,
In the work that pleasure wrought,
On she laboured in her love, preserving
Life, with hers so dearly bought;
Smoothed the creases of the crumpled pillow,
Patient at her sacred post,
Let the onset of the angry billow
Spend itself on her the most;
Counting not the cost of all, nor living
In her welfare to be blest,
Still content to find repose, in giving
Others rest.
In the work that pleasure wrought,
On she laboured in her love, preserving
Life, with hers so dearly bought;
Smoothed the creases of the crumpled pillow,
Patient at her sacred post,
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Spend itself on her the most;
Counting not the cost of all, nor living
In her welfare to be blest,
Still content to find repose, in giving
Others rest.
Thus for years she nobly toiled, and sorrowed
With the helpless and the weak,
Loftier grace from lowly service borrowed,
Which in acts alone would speak;
Ministered with patient hands, that lightly
Soothed the saddest in their loss,
And with reverent lips consoling, brightly
Turned the dying to the cross;
Till the Master plucked the perfect blossom,
Kissed away her parting breath,
Laid her softly on a Brother's bosom,
True to death.
With the helpless and the weak,
Loftier grace from lowly service borrowed,
Which in acts alone would speak;
Ministered with patient hands, that lightly
Soothed the saddest in their loss,
And with reverent lips consoling, brightly
Turned the dying to the cross;
Till the Master plucked the perfect blossom,
Kissed away her parting breath,
Laid her softly on a Brother's bosom,
True to death.
But though dead she may not wholly perish,
If her face indeed be gone,
And in holy memories they cherish,
Yet her spirit liveth on;
Yet they give her name a niche of honour
In the temple of the just,
Look to her as to some pure Madonna,
Drawing upward love and trust;
Yet they talk of her who came from Heaven,
Brought its balm to evil's taint,
Crown with blessings the “Wild Rose of Devon,
Now a saint.
If her face indeed be gone,
And in holy memories they cherish,
Yet her spirit liveth on;
Yet they give her name a niche of honour
In the temple of the just,
Look to her as to some pure Madonna,
Drawing upward love and trust;
Yet they talk of her who came from Heaven,
Brought its balm to evil's taint,
Crown with blessings the “Wild Rose of Devon,
Now a saint.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |