Ballads for the Times (Now first collected,) Geraldine, A Modern Pyramid, Bartenus, A Thousand Lines, and other poems. By Martin F. Tupper. A new Edition, enlarged and revised |
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 | Ballads for the Times |  |
404
Ellen Gray.
The Excuse of an Unfortunate.
A starless night, and bitter cold;
The low dun clouds all wildly roll'd,
Scudding before the blast,
And cheerlessly the frozen sleet
Adown the melancholy street
Swept onward thick and fast;
The low dun clouds all wildly roll'd,
Scudding before the blast,
And cheerlessly the frozen sleet
Adown the melancholy street
Swept onward thick and fast;
When crouched at an unfriendly door,
Faint, sick, and miserably poor,
A silent woman sate,
She might be young, and had been fair,
But from her eye look'd out despair,
All dim and desolate.
Faint, sick, and miserably poor,
A silent woman sate,
She might be young, and had been fair,
But from her eye look'd out despair,
All dim and desolate.
Was I to pass her coldly by,
Leaving her there to pine and die,
The live-long freezing night?
The secret answer of my heart
Told me I had not done my part
In flinging her a mite;
Leaving her there to pine and die,
The live-long freezing night?
The secret answer of my heart
Told me I had not done my part
In flinging her a mite;
She look'd her thanks,—then droop'd her head;
“Have you no friend, no home?” I said:
“Get up, poor creature, come,—
You seem unhappy, faint, and weak,
How can I serve or save you,—speak,
Or whither help you home?”
“Have you no friend, no home?” I said:
“Get up, poor creature, come,—
You seem unhappy, faint, and weak,
How can I serve or save you,—speak,
Or whither help you home?”
414
“Alas, kind sir, poor Ellen Gray
Has had no friend this many a day,
And, but that you seem kind,—
She has not found the face of late
That look'd on her in aught but hate,
And still despairs to find:
Has had no friend this many a day,
And, but that you seem kind,—
She has not found the face of late
That look'd on her in aught but hate,
And still despairs to find:
And for a home,—would I had none!
The home I have, a wicked one,
They will not let me in,
Till I can fee my jailor's hands
With the vile tribute she demands,
The wages of my sin:
The home I have, a wicked one,
They will not let me in,
Till I can fee my jailor's hands
With the vile tribute she demands,
The wages of my sin:
I see your goodness on me frown;
Yet hear the veriest wretch on town,
While yet in life she may,
Tell the sad story of her grief,—
Though heaven alone can bring relief
To guilty Ellen Gray.
Yet hear the veriest wretch on town,
While yet in life she may,
Tell the sad story of her grief,—
Though heaven alone can bring relief
To guilty Ellen Gray.
My mother died when I was born:
And I was flung, a babe forlorn,
Upon the workhouse floor;
My father,—would I knew him not!
A squalid thief, a reckless sot,
—I dare not tell you more.
And I was flung, a babe forlorn,
Upon the workhouse floor;
My father,—would I knew him not!
A squalid thief, a reckless sot,
—I dare not tell you more.
And I was bound an infant-slave,
With no one near to love, or save
From cruel sordid men,
A friendless, famish'd, factory child,
Morn, noon, and night I toil'd and toil'd,—
Yet was I happy then.
With no one near to love, or save
From cruel sordid men,
A friendless, famish'd, factory child,
Morn, noon, and night I toil'd and toil'd,—
Yet was I happy then.
415
My heart was pure, my face was fair;
Ah, would to God a cancer there
Had eaten out its way!
For soon my tasker, dreaded man,
With treacherous wiles and arts began
To mark me for his prey.
Ah, would to God a cancer there
Had eaten out its way!
For soon my tasker, dreaded man,
With treacherous wiles and arts began
To mark me for his prey.
And week by week he vainly strove
To light the flame of lawless love
In my most loathing breast;
Oh, how I fear'd and hated him,
So basely kind, so smoothly grim,
My terror, and my pest!
To light the flame of lawless love
In my most loathing breast;
Oh, how I fear'd and hated him,
So basely kind, so smoothly grim,
My terror, and my pest!
Till one day, at that prison-mill,—
Thenceforward droop'd my stricken head;
I lived,—I died, a life of dread,
Lest they should guess my shame;
But weeks and months would pass away,
And all too soon the bitter day
Of wrath and ruin came;
Thenceforward droop'd my stricken head;
I lived,—I died, a life of dread,
Lest they should guess my shame;
But weeks and months would pass away,
And all too soon the bitter day
Of wrath and ruin came;
I could not hide my alter'd form:
Then on my head the fearful storm
Of jibe and insult burst:
Men only mock'd me for my fate,
But women's scorn and women's hate
Me, their poor sister, curst.
Then on my head the fearful storm
Of jibe and insult burst:
Men only mock'd me for my fate,
But women's scorn and women's hate
Me, their poor sister, curst.
O woman, had thy kindless face
But gentler look'd on my disgrace,
And heal'd the wounds it gave!—
I was a drowning sinking wretch,
Whom no one loved enough to stretch
A finger out to save.
But gentler look'd on my disgrace,
And heal'd the wounds it gave!—
I was a drowning sinking wretch,
Whom no one loved enough to stretch
A finger out to save.
416
They tore my baby from my heart,
And lock'd it in some hole apart
Where I could hear its cry,
Such was the horrid poor-house law;—
Its little throes I never saw,
Although I heard it die!
And lock'd it in some hole apart
Where I could hear its cry,
Such was the horrid poor-house law;—
Its little throes I never saw,
Although I heard it die!
Still the stone hearts that ruled the place
Let me not kiss my darling's face,
My little darling dead;
Oh! I was mad with rage and hate,
And yet all sullenly I sate,
And not a word I said.
Let me not kiss my darling's face,
My little darling dead;
Oh! I was mad with rage and hate,
And yet all sullenly I sate,
And not a word I said.
I would not stay, I could not bear
To breathe the same infected air
That kill'd my precious child;
I watch'd my time, and fled away
The livelong night, the livelong day,
With fear and anguish wild:
To breathe the same infected air
That kill'd my precious child;
I watch'd my time, and fled away
The livelong night, the livelong day,
With fear and anguish wild:
Till down upon a river's bank,
Twenty leagues off, fainting, I sank,
And only long'd to die;
I had no hope, no home, no friend,
No God!—I sought but for an end
To life and misery.
Twenty leagues off, fainting, I sank,
And only long'd to die;
I had no hope, no home, no friend,
No God!—I sought but for an end
To life and misery.
Ah, lightly heed the righteous few,
How little to themselves is due,
But all things given to them;
Yet the unwise, because untaught,
The wandering sheep, because unsought,
They heartlessly condemn:
How little to themselves is due,
But all things given to them;
Yet the unwise, because untaught,
The wandering sheep, because unsought,
They heartlessly condemn:
417
And little can the untempted dream,
While gliding smoothly down life's stream
They keep the letter-laws,
What they would be, if, tost like me
Hopeless upon life's barren sea,
They knew how hunger gnaws.
While gliding smoothly down life's stream
They keep the letter-laws,
What they would be, if, tost like me
Hopeless upon life's barren sea,
They knew how hunger gnaws.
I was half-starved, I tried in vain
To get me work my bread to gain;
Before me flew my shame;
Cold Charity put up her purse,
And none look'd on me but to curse
The daughter of ill-fame.
To get me work my bread to gain;
Before me flew my shame;
Cold Charity put up her purse,
And none look'd on me but to curse
The daughter of ill-fame.
Alas, why need I count by links
The heavy lengthening chain that sinks
My heart, my soul, my all?
I still was fair, though hope was dead,
And so I sold myself for bread,
And lived upon my fall:
The heavy lengthening chain that sinks
My heart, my soul, my all?
I still was fair, though hope was dead,
And so I sold myself for bread,
And lived upon my fall:
Now was I reckless, bold and bad,
My love was hate,—I grew half-mad
With thinking on my wrongs;
Disease, and pain, and giant-sin
Rent body and soul, and raged within!
Such meed to guilt belongs.
My love was hate,—I grew half-mad
With thinking on my wrongs;
Disease, and pain, and giant-sin
Rent body and soul, and raged within!
Such meed to guilt belongs.
And what I was,—such still am I;
Afraid to live, unfit to die,—
And yet I hoped I might
Meet my best friend and lover—Death
In the fierce frowns and frozen breath
Of this December night.
Afraid to live, unfit to die,—
And yet I hoped I might
Meet my best friend and lover—Death
In the fierce frowns and frozen breath
Of this December night.
418
My tale is told: my heart grows cold;
I cannot stir,—yet,—kind good sir,
I know that you will stay,—
And God is kinder e'en than you,—
Can He not look with pity too
On wretched Ellen Gray?”
I cannot stir,—yet,—kind good sir,
I know that you will stay,—
And God is kinder e'en than you,—
Can He not look with pity too
On wretched Ellen Gray?”
Her eye was fix'd; she said no more,
But propp'd against the cold street-door
She lean'd her fainting head;
One moment she look'd up and smiled
Full of new hope, as Mercy's child,
—And Ellen Gray was dead.
But propp'd against the cold street-door
She lean'd her fainting head;
One moment she look'd up and smiled
Full of new hope, as Mercy's child,
—And Ellen Gray was dead.
| Ballads for the Times | |