 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
387
BABY FINGERS.
Ah, the touch of baby fingers
Prest against the mother's cheek,
Softly as it chides and lingers,
Fain some solace thus to seek;
Fain to ask, and without fretting,
Shelter from the shawl so thin,
Just a little praise and petting,
Not the poison taste of gin;
As it throbs in that hard city,
Knocking gently at the door,
If there may be pulse of pity
There, although the garb is poor.
Prest against the mother's cheek,
Softly as it chides and lingers,
Fain some solace thus to seek;
Fain to ask, and without fretting,
Shelter from the shawl so thin,
Just a little praise and petting,
Not the poison taste of gin;
As it throbs in that hard city,
Knocking gently at the door,
If there may be pulse of pity
There, although the garb is poor.
Ah, the baby fingers travel
Round the breast, the prey of crime,
Striving dimly to unravel
Mysteries of death and time;
Tenderly they woo and wander
Up and down the stricken frame,
Feeling, as if they did ponder
Shadows of the cursèd shame;
Blessing to the end the mortal
Mansion, sealèd eyes and brow,
Knocking vainly at the portal
Which can never open now.
Round the breast, the prey of crime,
Striving dimly to unravel
Mysteries of death and time;
Tenderly they woo and wander
Up and down the stricken frame,
Feeling, as if they did ponder
Shadows of the cursèd shame;
Blessing to the end the mortal
Mansion, sealèd eyes and brow,
Knocking vainly at the portal
Which can never open now.
Ah, the baby fingers wrestle
Now with hateful want and harms,
Find no haven where to nestle—
Not a drunken mother's arms;
Coldly grown and sadly thinner
While the sufferer creeps her way,
Toddling, trembling for the dinner
Thrown the pampered dogs at play;
Jostled is she, roughly jolted
Over stones, though tears may start,
Knocking at that barrier bolted,
Riches' sour and selfish heart.
Now with hateful want and harms,
Find no haven where to nestle—
Not a drunken mother's arms;
Coldly grown and sadly thinner
While the sufferer creeps her way,
Toddling, trembling for the dinner
Thrown the pampered dogs at play;
Jostled is she, roughly jolted
Over stones, though tears may start,
Knocking at that barrier bolted,
Riches' sour and selfish heart.
Ah, the touch of baby fingers
Idly fights with cruel fate,
Falls on brutal hands, and lingers
Lightly at the guarded gate;
Till at length it turns in terror
Feebly, unto mercy's door,
Refuge from all wrong and error,
Ever open to the poor;
Death, that for her cradle's rocking
From the first gave ghastly sin,
Hearkens to her patient knocking,
Comes and lets the baby in.
Idly fights with cruel fate,
Falls on brutal hands, and lingers
Lightly at the guarded gate;
Till at length it turns in terror
Feebly, unto mercy's door,
Refuge from all wrong and error,
Ever open to the poor;
388
From the first gave ghastly sin,
Hearkens to her patient knocking,
Comes and lets the baby in.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |