 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
A HALFPENNY AN HOUR.—DOWN.
Down the dirty steps she goes,
With a shambling shuffling pace,
In her heart a hell of woes,
Writhing outward to her face;
Clutching tight to peakéd chin
Ragged wraps that are not clothes,
Wise in every damnèd sin
Felt, that yet her spirit loathes;
Paid—nay mocked by wealthy thief,
As with refuse scraps turned sour,
That for dog were poor relief,
Doled a halfpenny an hour!
With a shambling shuffling pace,
In her heart a hell of woes,
Writhing outward to her face;
386
Ragged wraps that are not clothes,
Wise in every damnèd sin
Felt, that yet her spirit loathes;
Paid—nay mocked by wealthy thief,
As with refuse scraps turned sour,
That for dog were poor relief,
Doled a halfpenny an hour!
Down she totters to the cold
Den, that poisons as it must,
She who helps to gather gold,
All to sate a Satyr's lust;
Shabby, shivering, and faint
With the choking in her breath,
Striving hard to be a saint
Still in living that is death;
Late and lone, a driven slave,
Now the drudging work is done,
Longing for the kinder grave,
In the shelter that is none.
Den, that poisons as it must,
She who helps to gather gold,
All to sate a Satyr's lust;
Shabby, shivering, and faint
With the choking in her breath,
Striving hard to be a saint
Still in living that is death;
Late and lone, a driven slave,
Now the drudging work is done,
Longing for the kinder grave,
In the shelter that is none.
Down, yet lower, lower yet,
Dragged with bruised and broken wings,
On the path with snares beset,
Though to better thoughts she clings;
Leaving now the honest name,
Once through want she proudly bore,
For the refuge that is shame,
And the raptures that make sore;
Pierced with wounds that never heal,
Selling in the starving strife,
Maiden honour for a meal,
Woman's soul for very life.
Dragged with bruised and broken wings,
On the path with snares beset,
Though to better thoughts she clings;
Leaving now the honest name,
Once through want she proudly bore,
For the refuge that is shame,
And the raptures that make sore;
Pierced with wounds that never heal,
Selling in the starving strife,
Maiden honour for a meal,
Woman's soul for very life.
Down, still deeper, deeper still,
Carried by the fiery flood,
On to blacker aim and ill,
To the awful end of blood;
Till by hate and hunger prest
Farther, to the prison wall,
Mad she slays the babe at breast,
Loved, but blossom of her fall;
Prosperous sinners deem her fate
Just, and pious foreheads lour,
Reck not of the doomèd state,
Doled a halfpenny an hour.
Carried by the fiery flood,
On to blacker aim and ill,
To the awful end of blood;
Till by hate and hunger prest
Farther, to the prison wall,
Mad she slays the babe at breast,
Loved, but blossom of her fall;
Prosperous sinners deem her fate
Just, and pious foreheads lour,
Reck not of the doomèd state,
Doled a halfpenny an hour.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |