 | Women must weep |  |
ONE IS NOT.
She was wonderful and pure and white,
And she bore the rich and royal stamp,
Which in court and college and in camp
Shows the Queen elect by sacred right;
And if social bonds might clog or cramp,
They could not conceal the lovely light,
Which as a lamp
In marshes damp
Shone out in its beauty through the night,
And pointed all to its heavenly height;
Though the world toil'd on in its sullen tramp,
Till the unknown angels took their flight.
And she bore the rich and royal stamp,
Which in court and college and in camp
Shows the Queen elect by sacred right;
And if social bonds might clog or cramp,
They could not conceal the lovely light,
Which as a lamp
In marshes damp
Shone out in its beauty through the night,
And pointed all to its heavenly height;
Though the world toil'd on in its sullen tramp,
Till the unknown angels took their flight.
But a woman-child, and passing fair,
At a modest table humbly spread,
Where she blest and brake her cottage bread,
Like a flower she grew in the summer air,
While she plied the needle and the thread,
Or went up and down the cottage stair;
But now that head
Is worse than dead,
And the pretty hands no longer pair,
As we sighing gaze at the empty chair,
But we hope therein is Christ instead,
When we meet to have the evening pray'r.
At a modest table humbly spread,
Where she blest and brake her cottage bread,
Like a flower she grew in the summer air,
While she plied the needle and the thread,
Or went up and down the cottage stair;
But now that head
Is worse than dead,
And the pretty hands no longer pair,
As we sighing gaze at the empty chair,
But we hope therein is Christ instead,
When we meet to have the evening pray'r.
141
Ah! we oft at midnight weary wake,
When the winter blast the elm-tree rocks,
And we hear below the jarring crocks,
And the dishes on the dresser shake;
Yea, between the louder, ruder shocks,
In the silence we fresh courage take,
As if she knocks,
And tries the locks,
Or her sheeted ghost would entrance make,
And its restless thirst a moment slake;
But the wild wind only hoots and mocks,
And we cry aloud for Jesu's sake.
When the winter blast the elm-tree rocks,
And we hear below the jarring crocks,
And the dishes on the dresser shake;
Yea, between the louder, ruder shocks,
In the silence we fresh courage take,
As if she knocks,
And tries the locks,
Or her sheeted ghost would entrance make,
And its restless thirst a moment slake;
But the wild wind only hoots and mocks,
And we cry aloud for Jesu's sake.
We were sisters three, a silver chain,
And our life was first a happy lot,
Though the baby soon forsook her cot,
And for years has in the churchyard lain:
But she was a spirit without spot,
And we would not have her back again;
And one is not,
Who left a blot
Such that all the waters of the main
Could not wash away the guilty stain;
And we dream at times she is forgot,
But the morning brings the old dull pain.
And our life was first a happy lot,
Though the baby soon forsook her cot,
And for years has in the churchyard lain:
But she was a spirit without spot,
And we would not have her back again;
And one is not,
Who left a blot
Such that all the waters of the main
Could not wash away the guilty stain;
And we dream at times she is forgot,
But the morning brings the old dull pain.
| Women must weep | |