 | Women must weep |  |
THE LOST QUEEN.
Stately and strong,
Beautiful, brown,
As the gipsy who holds the flashing prong,
And tosses the hay he turns to song;
She had never a frown
For the rudest clown,
Unless some one told her of shameful wrong,
That was hush'd by the rich man's dinner-gong—
Though a sister drown,
He must feast along—
When she wept for the innocent life gone down,
Like a ship at sea, in the dreadful town.
Beautiful, brown,
As the gipsy who holds the flashing prong,
And tosses the hay he turns to song;
She had never a frown
For the rudest clown,
Unless some one told her of shameful wrong,
That was hush'd by the rich man's dinner-gong—
Though a sister drown,
He must feast along—
When she wept for the innocent life gone down,
Like a ship at sea, in the dreadful town.
Healthy and clean,
Rosy and tall,
She despised the lesser souls that lean,
And the pleasures that muddy are and mean;
She was first in all,
And at every call,
By the side of the bed-rid sufferer seen,
In the rustic sports on the village green,
At the stye or stall—
She was crowned the Queen;
She appear'd as firm as the old church wall,
And we thought that this would sooner fall.
Rosy and tall,
She despised the lesser souls that lean,
And the pleasures that muddy are and mean;
She was first in all,
And at every call,
By the side of the bed-rid sufferer seen,
In the rustic sports on the village green,
At the stye or stall—
She was crowned the Queen;
She appear'd as firm as the old church wall,
And we thought that this would sooner fall.
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Happy and young,
Brave at her post,
Like the careless birds, as they flew and sung,
Or on swaying branches lightly swung,
In the hostile host
She was frail as most;
She believed the lie of the honey'd tongue,
And the flattering look that laugh'd and stung,
And the boundary crost,
Though a warning hung;
She had counted all but the bitter cost,
And the Queen we followed and loved is lost.
Brave at her post,
Like the careless birds, as they flew and sung,
Or on swaying branches lightly swung,
In the hostile host
She was frail as most;
She believed the lie of the honey'd tongue,
And the flattering look that laugh'd and stung,
And the boundary crost,
Though a warning hung;
She had counted all but the bitter cost,
And the Queen we followed and loved is lost.
Hopeless and lame,
Bleeding and bound,
Is she pining away in her utter shame,
As a creature without a rag of name?
Does an awful sound,
Like a hunting hound,
In her ear keep knelling the death of fame,
While we miss her in every work and game,
And the festive round?
As she ever came,
Shall she yet retrace the enchanted ground,
And as Queen again our Queen be found?
Bleeding and bound,
Is she pining away in her utter shame,
As a creature without a rag of name?
Does an awful sound,
Like a hunting hound,
In her ear keep knelling the death of fame,
While we miss her in every work and game,
And the festive round?
As she ever came,
Shall she yet retrace the enchanted ground,
And as Queen again our Queen be found?
| Women must weep | |