 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
MY LADY BEAUTIFUL.
I sought her in the tumult fair and festive,
With rapture sweet,
Where passion burns and homeless hearts are restive,
And mad lips meet;
Where pleasure thrills, like Circe's magic potion,
Denying rest,
And life is one fierce mystery of motion,
To the young breast;
Where gay admirers frame in corner shady
The loving plot;
But there, in all the gilded throng, my Lady
Was not.
With rapture sweet,
Where passion burns and homeless hearts are restive,
And mad lips meet;
Where pleasure thrills, like Circe's magic potion,
Denying rest,
And life is one fierce mystery of motion,
To the young breast;
Where gay admirers frame in corner shady
The loving plot;
But there, in all the gilded throng, my Lady
Was not.
I sought her in the cradle of the fountains,
That fret in vain,
Where echoes answer to the ancient mountains,
Some secret strain;
Where nature weaves of branches gray and solemn
Cathedral piles,
The groinèd roof, the fluting of the column,
The pillared aisles;
Where leaves drop honey for the bruising sorest,
The saddest lot;
But there my Beautiful, in the calm forest,
Was not.
That fret in vain,
Where echoes answer to the ancient mountains,
Some secret strain;
Where nature weaves of branches gray and solemn
Cathedral piles,
The groinèd roof, the fluting of the column,
The pillared aisles;
Where leaves drop honey for the bruising sorest,
The saddest lot;
But there my Beautiful, in the calm forest,
Was not.
I sought her in the market, among masses
At greedy strife,
And in the hurly-burly of the classes,
Misreckoned life;
Where lust of lucre sounds its trumpet clearest,
And hirelings fall,
Who sell for cheapest price, and buy for dearest,
Honour and all;
Where noble spirits from pollution shamble,
With hideous blot;
But there my Lady, in the sordid scramble,
Was not.
At greedy strife,
And in the hurly-burly of the classes,
Misreckoned life;
Where lust of lucre sounds its trumpet clearest,
And hirelings fall,
Who sell for cheapest price, and buy for dearest,
Honour and all;
Where noble spirits from pollution shamble,
With hideous blot;
But there my Lady, in the sordid scramble,
Was not.
398
I sought her in the sanctuaries only
By suppliant trod,
Where, in the hour of vigil hushed and lonely,
Man meets with God;
Where weakness makes of straw and rags its pillow
And silent plea,
And tosses feebly upon fiery billow
Worse than the sea;
Beside the sufferer that will have no morrow
On sacred ground;
And there my Beautiful, in lands of sorrow,
Was found.
By suppliant trod,
Where, in the hour of vigil hushed and lonely,
Man meets with God;
Where weakness makes of straw and rags its pillow
And silent plea,
And tosses feebly upon fiery billow
Worse than the sea;
Beside the sufferer that will have no morrow
On sacred ground;
And there my Beautiful, in lands of sorrow,
Was found.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |