 | Women must weep |  |
A FADED FLOWER.
Lovable once, and lithe
As the kittens that purr and play,
She was blessèd by all, and she was blithe
As an opening morn in May;
While she follow'd the swish of her father's scythe,
And bound up his sheaf with ready withe,
Or tost in the new-mown hay
With the fingers that would not stay;
And the helpless worm that could only writhe,
Which she tenderly moved away,
And the fattening pig that paid the tithe,
Were all part of a working-day.
As the kittens that purr and play,
She was blessèd by all, and she was blithe
As an opening morn in May;
While she follow'd the swish of her father's scythe,
And bound up his sheaf with ready withe,
Or tost in the new-mown hay
With the fingers that would not stay;
And the helpless worm that could only writhe,
Which she tenderly moved away,
And the fattening pig that paid the tithe,
Were all part of a working-day.
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Delicate, sweet, a bud
That is stretch'd towards the sky,
She would watch the clouds awake, and scud
Into depths of shadow shy;
And she heard the flail of the thresher thud,
While the lazy heifer chew'd the cud,
Or brush'd off a teasing fly,
And she laugh'd, she knew not why;
Till the stars arose the heavens to stud,
And her heart began to cry;
And she trod beneath her feet the mud,
As the tempting hours went by.
That is stretch'd towards the sky,
She would watch the clouds awake, and scud
Into depths of shadow shy;
And she heard the flail of the thresher thud,
While the lazy heifer chew'd the cud,
Or brush'd off a teasing fly,
And she laugh'd, she knew not why;
Till the stars arose the heavens to stud,
And her heart began to cry;
And she trod beneath her feet the mud,
As the tempting hours went by.
Trustful and true and brave,
If her feet might sometimes rove,
When she dared the forge of the Cyclops' cave,
Where the smith his bellows drove;
Yet she was but a floweret born to wave
On the awful edge of a yawning grave,
That discerns the calling dove,
Not the hands that downward shove;
At the mercy of the first false knave,
Who awoke the dream of love;
Till she fell an easy fool and slave,
And the mire was seen above.
If her feet might sometimes rove,
When she dared the forge of the Cyclops' cave,
Where the smith his bellows drove;
Yet she was but a floweret born to wave
On the awful edge of a yawning grave,
That discerns the calling dove,
Not the hands that downward shove;
At the mercy of the first false knave,
Who awoke the dream of love;
Till she fell an easy fool and slave,
And the mire was seen above.
Faded, we wonder'd how,
In that homestead's quiet nook,
Though but yesterday she fed the cow,
And the pony's halter took;
Not a moment did she bend or bow,
And the gloom had gather'd on her brow,
And the anguish in her look,
As the storm within her shook;
But we hope the Saviour heard her vow,
Whom she never quite forsook,
And the bud is prest in safety now,
In the pages of God's Book.
In that homestead's quiet nook,
Though but yesterday she fed the cow,
And the pony's halter took;
Not a moment did she bend or bow,
And the gloom had gather'd on her brow,
And the anguish in her look,
As the storm within her shook;
But we hope the Saviour heard her vow,
Whom she never quite forsook,
And the bud is prest in safety now,
In the pages of God's Book.
| Women must weep | |