 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
THE CRY OF BLOOD.
What is that crowd at the corner,
Tumult of hurrying feet,
Face of the mirthful and mourner,
Stopping the rush of the street?
Sullenly crying,
Eager and prying,
Fighting each other for space,
Wrangling and cursing, and yet
Elbowing on to the place
Haunted, that none may forget,
Once taken in with the sight?
Satin and homespun and rags,
Jostling each other for light,
Over the slippery flags?
Forms without shaping,
Grinning and gaping
Down into glimmer and gloom,
Shed by the gaslight that glares
Fitfully, marking with doom
Something that horribly stares
Upward and seeks
Mercy through tears
Idly rained on the white cheeks,
Frozen in agonized fears.
Tumult of hurrying feet,
Face of the mirthful and mourner,
Stopping the rush of the street?
Sullenly crying,
Eager and prying,
Fighting each other for space,
Wrangling and cursing, and yet
Elbowing on to the place
Haunted, that none may forget,
Once taken in with the sight?
Satin and homespun and rags,
Jostling each other for light,
Over the slippery flags?
Forms without shaping,
Grinning and gaping
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Shed by the gaslight that glares
Fitfully, marking with doom
Something that horribly stares
Upward and seeks
Mercy through tears
Idly rained on the white cheeks,
Frozen in agonized fears.
Ah, there is blood on the portal,
Splashed on the threshold that drips,
Blood of a beauteous mortal,
Spluttered about on the steps,
Written with ruddy
Letters, in muddy
Pavement, not hard as the breast
Black, that with damnable hate,
Worse than a devil or beast,
Fashioned that terrible fate;
Blood of accusing on stones
Branded, that cry with their stain
Out in dumb pitiful tones,
Vengeance for murder, in vain—
Hopelessly weeping,
Helplessly keeping
Watch for the judgment, that, strong
Refuge for rich men and high
Places, in poverty's wrong,
Heeds not the lowly one's sigh;
Blood upon Power,
Impotent all
Still to protect the bright flower,
Stricken to death in its fall.
Splashed on the threshold that drips,
Blood of a beauteous mortal,
Spluttered about on the steps,
Written with ruddy
Letters, in muddy
Pavement, not hard as the breast
Black, that with damnable hate,
Worse than a devil or beast,
Fashioned that terrible fate;
Blood of accusing on stones
Branded, that cry with their stain
Out in dumb pitiful tones,
Vengeance for murder, in vain—
Hopelessly weeping,
Helplessly keeping
Watch for the judgment, that, strong
Refuge for rich men and high
Places, in poverty's wrong,
Heeds not the lowly one's sigh;
Blood upon Power,
Impotent all
Still to protect the bright flower,
Stricken to death in its fall.
Only the common old story,
Stranger than fancy, and thus
Scribbled with characters gory,
Pleading in silence to us,
Born to be brothers,
Careless of others
Weaker, less fortunate, frail,
Tumbled aside by the rush
Trampling the victims that fail,
Whispered perchance with a blush;
Only a woman gone down,
Deep in the darkness and mire,
Infamous dregs of the town,
Meant to ascend and aspire;
Wrought for no fetter,
Wrought to make better
Men, who want delicate feet
Moving among them, and hands
Soft with a ministry sweet,
Loosing the prisoner bands;
Only a child
Feeble and lost,
Reaping, through torturing wild,
Rest at such infinite cost.
Stranger than fancy, and thus
Scribbled with characters gory,
Pleading in silence to us,
Born to be brothers,
Careless of others
Weaker, less fortunate, frail,
Tumbled aside by the rush
Trampling the victims that fail,
Whispered perchance with a blush;
Only a woman gone down,
Deep in the darkness and mire,
Infamous dregs of the town,
Meant to ascend and aspire;
Wrought for no fetter,
Wrought to make better
379
Moving among them, and hands
Soft with a ministry sweet,
Loosing the prisoner bands;
Only a child
Feeble and lost,
Reaping, through torturing wild,
Rest at such infinite cost.
Once she was dainty and fair,
Modest in maidenhood, bright
Haloed with glorious hair,
Catching the kisses of light,
Opening her bosom,
Pure as a blossom,
Full to the freshness of morn,
Beams that were blessed and true,
Rosebud that scarce had a thorn,
Roofed with a heaven of blue;
Now all disfigured and dark,
Wrecked by the passionate flood,
Sin, unrelieved by a spark,
There she lies dabbled in blood,
Scornfully scattered,
Poured from the shattered
Body, that should be a shrine
Shapely, and filled with the flame
Breathed by the Presence Divine,
Signed with the holiest Name;
Now unto dust
Shamefully ground,
Killed by the demon of lust,
Woman despoiled and discrown'd.
Modest in maidenhood, bright
Haloed with glorious hair,
Catching the kisses of light,
Opening her bosom,
Pure as a blossom,
Full to the freshness of morn,
Beams that were blessed and true,
Rosebud that scarce had a thorn,
Roofed with a heaven of blue;
Now all disfigured and dark,
Wrecked by the passionate flood,
Sin, unrelieved by a spark,
There she lies dabbled in blood,
Scornfully scattered,
Poured from the shattered
Body, that should be a shrine
Shapely, and filled with the flame
Breathed by the Presence Divine,
Signed with the holiest Name;
Now unto dust
Shamefully ground,
Killed by the demon of lust,
Woman despoiled and discrown'd.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |