 | Ballads and Other Poems |  |
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IV. JUDGMENT.
Name her not, the guilty one,
Virtue turns aside for shame
At the mention of her name:
Very evilly hath she done.
Pity is on her misspent:
She was born of guilty kin,
Her life's course hath guilty been;
Never unto school she went,
And whate'er she learned was sin;
Let her die!
Virtue turns aside for shame
At the mention of her name:
Very evilly hath she done.
Pity is on her misspent:
She was born of guilty kin,
Her life's course hath guilty been;
Never unto school she went,
And whate'er she learned was sin;
Let her die!
She was nurtured for her fate;
Beautiful she was, and vain;
Like a child of sinful Cain,
She was born a reprobate.
Lives like hers the world defile;
Plead not for her, let her die
As the child of infamy,
Ignorant and poor and vile,
Plague-spot in the public eye;
Let her die!
The Heart of the Outcast.
Beautiful she was, and vain;
Like a child of sinful Cain,
She was born a reprobate.
Lives like hers the world defile;
Plead not for her, let her die
As the child of infamy,
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Plague-spot in the public eye;
Let her die!
I am young, alas! so young;
And the world has been my foe;
And by hardship, wrong, and woe,
Hath my bleeding heart been stung.
There was none, O God! to teach me
What was wrong and what was right.
I have sinned before thy sight;
Let my cry of anguish reach thee,
Piercing through the glooms of night,
God of love!
And the world has been my foe;
And by hardship, wrong, and woe,
Hath my bleeding heart been stung.
There was none, O God! to teach me
What was wrong and what was right.
I have sinned before thy sight;
Let my cry of anguish reach thee,
Piercing through the glooms of night,
God of love!
Man is cruel, and doth smother
Tender mercy in his breast;
Lays fresh burdens on the oppressed;
Pities not an erring brother,
Pities not the stormy throes
Of the soul despair hath riven,
Nor the brain to madness driven.
No one but the sinner knows
What it means to be forgiven,
God of love!
Tender mercy in his breast;
Lays fresh burdens on the oppressed;
Pities not an erring brother,
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Of the soul despair hath riven,
Nor the brain to madness driven.
No one but the sinner knows
What it means to be forgiven,
God of love!
Therefore will I put my trust
In thy merey: and I cleave
To that love which can forgive;
To that judgment which is just;
Which can pity all my weakness;
Which hath seen the life-long strife
Of passions fiercer than the knife;
Known the desolating bleakness
Of my desert path through life,
God of love!
In thy merey: and I cleave
To that love which can forgive;
To that judgment which is just;
Which can pity all my weakness;
Which hath seen the life-long strife
Of passions fiercer than the knife;
Known the desolating bleakness
Of my desert path through life,
God of love!
I must perish in my youth;
And had I been better taught,
And did virtue as it ought,
And had grey-haired wisdom ruth,
I should not have fallen so low.
'Tis the power of circumstance,
'Tis the wretch's dire mischance,
To be born to sin and woe.
Pity thou my ignorance,
God of love!
And had I been better taught,
And did virtue as it ought,
And had grey-haired wisdom ruth,
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'Tis the power of circumstance,
'Tis the wretch's dire mischance,
To be born to sin and woe.
Pity thou my ignorance,
God of love!
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