 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
54
A BLEEDING BREAST.
Her garb is humble, and the stain
Of labour on her hand,
Yet speaks not of the silent pain,
Nor of the inward brand,
Which, in this crowded land,
Condemns her sternly to the chain,
A lonely prisoner, who in vain
Struggles to break her band;
While through her dark disordered brain
Come, not at her command,
The ghosts of fear she fancied slain,
Ghosts she cannot withstand.
Of labour on her hand,
Yet speaks not of the silent pain,
Nor of the inward brand,
Which, in this crowded land,
Condemns her sternly to the chain,
A lonely prisoner, who in vain
Struggles to break her band;
While through her dark disordered brain
Come, not at her command,
The ghosts of fear she fancied slain,
Ghosts she cannot withstand.
Unheeded in that busy throng,
Unhonoured by the glance,
Which only courts the fair and strong
Carried to feast or dance,
The victim she of chance
Is driven to and fro, by wrong
Scourging her with its cruel thong,
And piercing with its lance;
For her no waft of soothing song,
But eyes that frown askance,
With weakness trailing shadows long,
And want that's no romance.
Unhonoured by the glance,
Which only courts the fair and strong
Carried to feast or dance,
The victim she of chance
Is driven to and fro, by wrong
Scourging her with its cruel thong,
And piercing with its lance;
For her no waft of soothing song,
But eyes that frown askance,
With weakness trailing shadows long,
And want that's no romance.
Ah, who shall read the hidden thought,
That tortures her, and sends
Its pangs of poison in her wrought,
And every fibre rends,
Till all her being bends?
What hand can give the solace sought,
When hourly some new grief is brought,
That life-blood spills and spends,
To leave the wearied spirit nought
But blank despair, that blends
With the old struggle idly fought,
Its blasted hopes and ends?
That tortures her, and sends
Its pangs of poison in her wrought,
And every fibre rends,
Till all her being bends?
What hand can give the solace sought,
When hourly some new grief is brought,
That life-blood spills and spends,
To leave the wearied spirit nought
But blank despair, that blends
With the old struggle idly fought,
Its blasted hopes and ends?
The sunlight comes, the sunlight goes,
But not the cruel guest,
The wakeful burden of her woes,
The secret rankling pest,
Like inquisition's quest,
Which shakes her as with earthquake throes,
And shuts her in like icy floes;
Though soft is others' nest,
And ladies pass with dainty toes,
Yet she may never rest,
With all her nature turned to foes,
Who bears a bleeding breast.
But not the cruel guest,
The wakeful burden of her woes,
The secret rankling pest,
Like inquisition's quest,
Which shakes her as with earthquake throes,
And shuts her in like icy floes;
Though soft is others' nest,
And ladies pass with dainty toes,
Yet she may never rest,
With all her nature turned to foes,
Who bears a bleeding breast.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |