 | Women must weep |  |
A PALIMPSEST.
Woman weak, and nothing more,
Woman fair, and nothing less—
Nay, a child in woman's dress,
Wounded in the battle sore,
Bleeding, too, at every pore;
Troubles press,
Quick distress,
As the billows on the shore,
On the soul Christ came to bless,
Beating as to purge the ore,
Beating as they beat before,
Till the guilty soul confess.
Woman fair, and nothing less—
Nay, a child in woman's dress,
Wounded in the battle sore,
Bleeding, too, at every pore;
Troubles press,
Quick distress,
As the billows on the shore,
On the soul Christ came to bless,
Beating as to purge the ore,
Beating as they beat before,
Till the guilty soul confess.
Not a vestige of the morn,
Under that foul faded hood,
Branding as it never should,
When a woman-child was born,
Waved as first-fruits of the corn—
When her good
Angel stood
By the spirit now so worn,
Like a leaf in autumn wood;
Still with garment grey less torn
Than the heart, by earthly scorn,
Lavish'd as but sisters could.
Under that foul faded hood,
Branding as it never should,
When a woman-child was born,
Waved as first-fruits of the corn—
When her good
Angel stood
By the spirit now so worn,
Like a leaf in autumn wood;
Still with garment grey less torn
Than the heart, by earthly scorn,
Lavish'd as but sisters could.
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Look once more with reverent gaze,
For it is a sister yet,
One a mother used to pet,
Wandering in a weary maze,
Blinded by the hopeless haze,
Thorns that fret,
Pitfalls set,
Till the very sign-posts daze
Eyes with weeping wild and wet—
Till the mingled murk and blaze
Reeling senses well-nigh craze,
But forbid her to forget.
For it is a sister yet,
One a mother used to pet,
Wandering in a weary maze,
Blinded by the hopeless haze,
Thorns that fret,
Pitfalls set,
Till the very sign-posts daze
Eyes with weeping wild and wet—
Till the mingled murk and blaze
Reeling senses well-nigh craze,
But forbid her to forget.
Though the tempest on her rain,
Though the form be meanly dress'd,
Not one day of Sabbath rest,
Not a joy a moment's gain;
Lo! beneath the bitter stain,
Evil's pest,
Sorrow's test,
Dismal blots that sear in vain,
Glimmers writing love reads best—
Glimmer above mark of Cain,
Letters that may live again,
Laws of God's own palimpsest.
Though the form be meanly dress'd,
Not one day of Sabbath rest,
Not a joy a moment's gain;
Lo! beneath the bitter stain,
Evil's pest,
Sorrow's test,
Dismal blots that sear in vain,
Glimmers writing love reads best—
Glimmer above mark of Cain,
Letters that may live again,
Laws of God's own palimpsest.
| Women must weep | |