 | Women must weep |  |
BLIGHTED BUDS.
Pallid and wither'd and old,
With their faces like winterly morn,
Restless and wretched and cold,
With their garments so tatter'd and torn—
Why, as half-frightened, half-bold,
Do they limp along weary and worn,
Like beasts to be slaughter'd or sold
In a market, all foul and forlorn?
What is their name?
Whence is the shame,
That shuts them in shadow and horror from men?
What are they doing?
Where are they going,
Huddled as sheep that have stray'd from the pen?
They are brothers and poor,
And they knock at thy door.
With their faces like winterly morn,
Restless and wretched and cold,
With their garments so tatter'd and torn—
Why, as half-frightened, half-bold,
Do they limp along weary and worn,
Like beasts to be slaughter'd or sold
In a market, all foul and forlorn?
What is their name?
Whence is the shame,
That shuts them in shadow and horror from men?
What are they doing?
Where are they going,
Huddled as sheep that have stray'd from the pen?
They are brothers and poor,
And they knock at thy door.
Looking so aged, looking so young,
Old men or children, babies or brutes,
Writhen in weakness, deformed, and wrung
With the famine that sends its insatiable roots
Into the bosom, and fetters the tongue,
And gnaws like the rats at the heart-strings and roots—
Tottering fearfully, swaying and swung
By the icy north-easter that hisses and hoots—
What are those shapes,
Human or apes,
Pigs from the pigsty or ghouls from the grave?
What are they saying,
Cursing or praying,
For the judgment to damn them or mercy to save?
They are neighbours who lie
On thy threshold to die.
Old men or children, babies or brutes,
Writhen in weakness, deformed, and wrung
With the famine that sends its insatiable roots
Into the bosom, and fetters the tongue,
And gnaws like the rats at the heart-strings and roots—
Tottering fearfully, swaying and swung
By the icy north-easter that hisses and hoots—
What are those shapes,
Human or apes,
Pigs from the pigsty or ghouls from the grave?
What are they saying,
Cursing or praying,
For the judgment to damn them or mercy to save?
They are neighbours who lie
On thy threshold to die.
48
Outcasts and exiles, like Cain,
They are driven by scourges of pride,
Madden'd with passion and pain,
To the charnel-like holes where they hide—
To the words and the workings that stain,
To the slough where the lepers abide,
To the crimes that alone are their gain,
And for ever from pity divide.
They are chain'd to the mill
Of the sorrows that kill,
They are grinding and groaning in darkness and need;
Hounded in corners,
Butts of the scorners,
Beasts that in bondage of misery bleed.
They are waiting thy hands,
That should shatter their bands.
They are driven by scourges of pride,
Madden'd with passion and pain,
To the charnel-like holes where they hide—
To the words and the workings that stain,
To the slough where the lepers abide,
To the crimes that alone are their gain,
And for ever from pity divide.
They are chain'd to the mill
Of the sorrows that kill,
They are grinding and groaning in darkness and need;
Hounded in corners,
Butts of the scorners,
Beasts that in bondage of misery bleed.
They are waiting thy hands,
That should shatter their bands.
Ah, they are children who always were gray,
Always were tired and hungry and sad,
Never had toys for a moment of play,
Never learn'd lessons but those that were bad,
Never were young from their earliest day,
Ag'd with suffering that only makes mad,
Wise with the sins that in mourning array—
Treasures of evil were all that they had.
Yes, thy children they are,
Under blot, under bar;
Children who yet may be dragg'd from the mud,
Torn from the miring,
Pluck'd from the firing,
Till the blossom arise from the death-stricken bud.
They desire but thy love,
To stoop down from above.
Always were tired and hungry and sad,
Never had toys for a moment of play,
Never learn'd lessons but those that were bad,
Never were young from their earliest day,
Ag'd with suffering that only makes mad,
Wise with the sins that in mourning array—
Treasures of evil were all that they had.
Yes, thy children they are,
Under blot, under bar;
Children who yet may be dragg'd from the mud,
Torn from the miring,
Pluck'd from the firing,
Till the blossom arise from the death-stricken bud.
They desire but thy love,
To stoop down from above.
| Women must weep | |