 | Women must weep |  |
FORGOTTEN.
On they babble through the shade and shine,
On they riot through the shine and shade,
Careless if their pleasures gall and jade—
Strangers dig the treasures from the mine,
They as hardly made
As the labouring spade,
Which has conquer'd more that scarlet line,
Or the iron walls which bridge the brine
And with commerce lade;
On they hurry, pouring costly wine,
With the costlier blood—though she may pine,
And forgotten fade.
On they riot through the shine and shade,
Careless if their pleasures gall and jade—
Strangers dig the treasures from the mine,
They as hardly made
As the labouring spade,
Which has conquer'd more that scarlet line,
Or the iron walls which bridge the brine
And with commerce lade;
On they hurry, pouring costly wine,
With the costlier blood—though she may pine,
And forgotten fade.
Lately she was innocent, and drew
Many a willing captive to her sway;
Foremost in the toiling and the play,
Each succeeding hour her empire grew,
Sweeter swell'd her way,
Jewels leap'd from clay,
Every gate before her open flew,
Yawning gulfs and bounds no barriers threw,
Stumbling-block no stay;
And on her the tempest gently blew,
Which, unsparing, others weaker slew—
Only yesterday.
Many a willing captive to her sway;
Foremost in the toiling and the play,
Each succeeding hour her empire grew,
Sweeter swell'd her way,
Jewels leap'd from clay,
Every gate before her open flew,
Yawning gulfs and bounds no barriers threw,
Stumbling-block no stay;
And on her the tempest gently blew,
Which, unsparing, others weaker slew—
Only yesterday.
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Lately she was leader of a band,
All she did and utter'd must be right;
Beautiful she made the meanest plight
By a wave of her bewitching hand,
Which on even blight
Shed a lovely light;
But she built and trusted sinking sand,
Till the tide encroaching hid the land,
Perjured friends took flight;
Now they see no graces but the brand,
Come no more with joy at her command—
Now her day is night.
All she did and utter'd must be right;
Beautiful she made the meanest plight
By a wave of her bewitching hand,
Which on even blight
Shed a lovely light;
But she built and trusted sinking sand,
Till the tide encroaching hid the land,
Perjured friends took flight;
Now they see no graces but the brand,
Come no more with joy at her command—
Now her day is night.
Vainly doth she for compassion call,
Scatter words that are no more than wind,
Think from stony heart some help to find,
Tost about as children toss a ball;
Former friends so kind
Drop the window-blind,
Slam the door on such a sullied thrall,
Thrust her from the very servants' hall,
Only aid to bind;
None remember what she was to all,
None have pity on a woman's fall—
She is left behind.
Scatter words that are no more than wind,
Think from stony heart some help to find,
Tost about as children toss a ball;
Former friends so kind
Drop the window-blind,
Slam the door on such a sullied thrall,
Thrust her from the very servants' hall,
Only aid to bind;
None remember what she was to all,
None have pity on a woman's fall—
She is left behind.
| Women must weep | |