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 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
789
“ALWAYS WRONG.”
Blind to all her beauty, without notion
Save of brutal selfish aims,
Taking as a thing of course devotion
Such as Russian despot claims;
Cold was he and hard, a master cruel
To his gentle faithful wife,
Heedless of the precious heavenly jewel
In that bright and blameless life;
Her he flung the scraps of the affection
Only for his stable strong,
Sure, if dog or man defied detection,
She was always wrong.
Save of brutal selfish aims,
Taking as a thing of course devotion
Such as Russian despot claims;
Cold was he and hard, a master cruel
To his gentle faithful wife,
Heedless of the precious heavenly jewel
In that bright and blameless life;
Her he flung the scraps of the affection
Only for his stable strong,
Sure, if dog or man defied detection,
She was always wrong.
Her sweet ministries of office lowly
He to evil basely turned,
Careless how the lamp of loving holy
In her woman's bosom burned;
Truth was made of his false nature portion,
By a sordid narrow mind,
As by mirror cracked, with dark distortion
Into error most unkind;
Every note she struck he rudely strangled,
Like a discord in a song,
All she said or did he mocked and mangled—
She was always wrong.
He to evil basely turned,
Careless how the lamp of loving holy
In her woman's bosom burned;
Truth was made of his false nature portion,
By a sordid narrow mind,
As by mirror cracked, with dark distortion
Into error most unkind;
Every note she struck he rudely strangled,
Like a discord in a song,
All she said or did he mocked and mangled—
She was always wrong.
Vain her tender service, vainly squandered
Loyalty that knew not bounds,
When his heart (in crib or kennel) pondered
But on horses or on hounds;
All her purest homage was mistaken,
Though she simply strove to please,
While abode he sensual, and unshaken
In his vulgar swinish ease;
Right to him the tending of his cattle,
Right the welcome dinner gong,
And most right the lying pothouse tattle—
She was always wrong.
Loyalty that knew not bounds,
When his heart (in crib or kennel) pondered
But on horses or on hounds;
All her purest homage was mistaken,
Though she simply strove to please,
While abode he sensual, and unshaken
In his vulgar swinish ease;
Right to him the tending of his cattle,
Right the welcome dinner gong,
And most right the lying pothouse tattle—
She was always wrong.
Then she sickened, and the link was parted
Binding him to one so good,
Yet from no disease but broken-hearted,
Murdered and misunderstood;
Till the angel came whose face is hidden,
Though his presence still is rest,
And received her, bruised and spent and chidden,
In the refuge of his breast;
But she sobbed, her last breath feebly flying,
She who greatly served him long,
“If I erred in living, now, by dying,
Am I always wrong?”
Binding him to one so good,
Yet from no disease but broken-hearted,
Murdered and misunderstood;
Till the angel came whose face is hidden,
Though his presence still is rest,
And received her, bruised and spent and chidden,
In the refuge of his breast;
But she sobbed, her last breath feebly flying,
She who greatly served him long,
“If I erred in living, now, by dying,
Am I always wrong?”
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |