 | Women must weep |  |
THE MAGDALEN.
Pale at charity's cold portal,
Low she bows with claspèd hands;
She is but a woman mortal,
And a penitent she stands;
But a Magdalen and lonely,
Left by cowards to her fate,
And she craves forgiveness only,
Knocking feebly at our gate.
From the evening to the morning,
Still she pleads the piteous word,
In the grief her sole adorning—
“I have err'd.”
Low she bows with claspèd hands;
She is but a woman mortal,
And a penitent she stands;
But a Magdalen and lonely,
Left by cowards to her fate,
And she craves forgiveness only,
Knocking feebly at our gate.
From the evening to the morning,
Still she pleads the piteous word,
In the grief her sole adorning—
“I have err'd.”
Nay, a child—she scarce is woman—
Begs with looks from weeping wild,
Beautiful and very human,
Once a loving mother's child;
Begs, and evermore must linger,
In her humble helpless grace,
For the raising of a finger,
For the softening of a face;
Begs what we concede to others,
Not by thirst for kindness thinn'd,
For the owning of her brothers—
“I have sinn'd.”
Begs with looks from weeping wild,
Beautiful and very human,
Once a loving mother's child;
Begs, and evermore must linger,
In her humble helpless grace,
For the raising of a finger,
For the softening of a face;
Begs what we concede to others,
Not by thirst for kindness thinn'd,
For the owning of her brothers—
“I have sinn'd.”
131
O be just, as well as tender,
To the suppliant sinking low:
She is not alone offender,
Though on her descends the blow;
While she feels the fetters harden,
Which more guilty souls should share,
Blacker deeds receive a pardon,
Though the weak we cannot spare;
But she kneels for Christian pity,
Heaving sigh so seldom heard,
In the rich and heartless city—
“I have err'd.”
To the suppliant sinking low:
She is not alone offender,
Though on her descends the blow;
While she feels the fetters harden,
Which more guilty souls should share,
Blacker deeds receive a pardon,
Though the weak we cannot spare;
But she kneels for Christian pity,
Heaving sigh so seldom heard,
In the rich and heartless city—
“I have err'd.”
Grant the dying sufferer living,
If ye jewell'd vices pet,
Not the mummery of forgiving
Which refuses to forget;
Lift her boldly up, and take her
By the hand which helping asks,—
Set her, and no more forsake her,
Once again a sister's tasks;
Lest, when fades away the fashion
Of this world, like idle wind,
Ye shall cry to deaf Compassion—
“I have sinn'd.”
If ye jewell'd vices pet,
Not the mummery of forgiving
Which refuses to forget;
Lift her boldly up, and take her
By the hand which helping asks,—
Set her, and no more forsake her,
Once again a sister's tasks;
Lest, when fades away the fashion
Of this world, like idle wind,
Ye shall cry to deaf Compassion—
“I have sinn'd.”
| Women must weep | |