 | Women must weep |  |
125
THE COFFIN-MAKERS.
All through the sad and dreary night,
All through the sadder drearier day,
From the first ghastly streak of light,
Within the alleys grim and gray,
Uplifted as a hand to slay;
Unto the eve that falls like blight,
And takes its mournful moaning flight,
As a lost soul its hell-ward way;
I hear outside the realm of right,
Those awful strokes that do not stay,
That forge for death its fetters tight,
And make the coffin of decay—
Tapping, rapping,
Rapping, tapping—
And with the blow that never fails,
Still driving home the dreadful nails.
All through the sadder drearier day,
From the first ghastly streak of light,
Within the alleys grim and gray,
Uplifted as a hand to slay;
Unto the eve that falls like blight,
And takes its mournful moaning flight,
As a lost soul its hell-ward way;
I hear outside the realm of right,
Those awful strokes that do not stay,
That forge for death its fetters tight,
And make the coffin of decay—
Tapping, rapping,
Rapping, tapping—
And with the blow that never fails,
Still driving home the dreadful nails.
All through the rapture of the dance,
All through the revelling of the feast,
When softening eyes with pleasure glance,
That cheers the loftiest and the least;
From dens of darkness in the East,
I hear through every change and chance,
And over pity's broken lance,
Those sounds that never once have ceast,
Where ruin weaves its pale romance,
Of wretches lower than the beast,
With evil eyes that scowl askance,
With wicked thoughts that work like yeast—
Tapping, rapping,
Rapping, tapping—
Those haunting sounds that nought can hide,
As closer draws the coffin-side.
All through the revelling of the feast,
When softening eyes with pleasure glance,
That cheers the loftiest and the least;
From dens of darkness in the East,
I hear through every change and chance,
And over pity's broken lance,
Those sounds that never once have ceast,
Where ruin weaves its pale romance,
Of wretches lower than the beast,
With evil eyes that scowl askance,
With wicked thoughts that work like yeast—
Tapping, rapping,
Rapping, tapping—
Those haunting sounds that nought can hide,
As closer draws the coffin-side.
All through the fleeting ebb and flow,
All through the fixèd course of fate,
While we to grander heights may grow
And strengthen to a holier state—
Above our petty love and hate,
The idle winds that breathe or blow,
The whirl of shadows, and the show
That dies even if it linger late—
I hear, beyond the lamps that glow,
And gilded fashion's hollow prate,
Those constant beats that throb and throw
A curse, which mercy cannot date—
Tapping, rapping,
Rapping, tapping—
While, toiling as they ever did,
They hammer down the coffin lid.
All through the fixèd course of fate,
While we to grander heights may grow
And strengthen to a holier state—
Above our petty love and hate,
126
The whirl of shadows, and the show
That dies even if it linger late—
I hear, beyond the lamps that glow,
And gilded fashion's hollow prate,
Those constant beats that throb and throw
A curse, which mercy cannot date—
Tapping, rapping,
Rapping, tapping—
While, toiling as they ever did,
They hammer down the coffin lid.
| Women must weep | |