 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
121
A MAID OF DEVON.
Come, raise your hats, proud nobles, now
To one who never bent—
To a more noble maiden bow,
Whose name was Millicent;
A child of gentle blood and bold,
If yet unknown to fame,
Whose story should be writ in gold,
And she a household name;
Ah, bow the haughty head, and kneel
To this young queenly maid,
Who held her purpose firm as steel,
To death nor was afraid.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
To one who never bent—
To a more noble maiden bow,
Whose name was Millicent;
A child of gentle blood and bold,
If yet unknown to fame,
Whose story should be writ in gold,
And she a household name;
Ah, bow the haughty head, and kneel
To this young queenly maid,
Who held her purpose firm as steel,
To death nor was afraid.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
Down in the lovely Devon land,
Where women all are fair,
Where men are mighty to command,
And breathe a larger air—
It happened, what I tell in song,
This true heroic deed,
To show a maiden can be strong,
Though fragile as a reed—
There beats a heart in childhood's breast,
To do and grandly dare,
A spirit that can laugh at rest,
And fiery tortures bear.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
Where women all are fair,
Where men are mighty to command,
And breathe a larger air—
It happened, what I tell in song,
This true heroic deed,
To show a maiden can be strong,
Though fragile as a reed—
There beats a heart in childhood's breast,
To do and grandly dare,
A spirit that can laugh at rest,
And fiery tortures bear.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
Ah, mothers, when your pets run wild,
Thorns fret the floweret's stem,
Think of that tender woman child,
And gentle be to them—
Of her, who, as to burning stake,
A martyr dared to go,
And love all maidens, for the sake
Of her who suffered so;
Could those, who in a palace dwell,
And shielded are from wrong,
Stand under such a cross as well,
Such burden bear as long?
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
Thorns fret the floweret's stem,
Think of that tender woman child,
And gentle be to them—
Of her, who, as to burning stake,
A martyr dared to go,
And love all maidens, for the sake
Of her who suffered so;
Could those, who in a palace dwell,
And shielded are from wrong,
Stand under such a cross as well,
Such burden bear as long?
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
She numbered scarcely sweet ten years,
And dainty was and slight,
And mingled seemed of roses' tears,
Pure lilies, love, and light;
The promise of the bud, that opes
Just to the morning's kiss,
Lay on her with its radiant hopes,
In prophecies of bliss;
Gleams as of sunrise in the east,
Glanced through her golden hair,
Found in her glorious eyes a feast,
And made her wondrous fair.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
And dainty was and slight,
And mingled seemed of roses' tears,
Pure lilies, love, and light;
122
Just to the morning's kiss,
Lay on her with its radiant hopes,
In prophecies of bliss;
Gleams as of sunrise in the east,
Glanced through her golden hair,
Found in her glorious eyes a feast,
And made her wondrous fair.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
One day, at school, in careless play,
Running to catch a ball,
She slipt on her impetuous way,
And had a grievous fall;
She broke her pretty arm, and quick
The cruel pangs that came,
Turned her brave bosom faint and sick,
And quivered through her frame;
And hardly could she rise, and drag
Feet lightly used to roam,
And oft she was obliged to lag,
Before she reached the home.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
Running to catch a ball,
She slipt on her impetuous way,
And had a grievous fall;
She broke her pretty arm, and quick
The cruel pangs that came,
Turned her brave bosom faint and sick,
And quivered through her frame;
And hardly could she rise, and drag
Feet lightly used to roam,
And oft she was obliged to lag,
Before she reached the home.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
She sought the mistress, sad and pale,
In quest of pitying art
And helping hands, with trembling tale,
And anguish in her heart;
But kindness none she met from her,
Who held a parent's place,
And should have been a comforter,
But turned a frigid face;
She called her “coward,” many a name
Child never tamely bore,
Till a fixed purpose fierce as flame,
Arose—to say no more.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
In quest of pitying art
And helping hands, with trembling tale,
And anguish in her heart;
But kindness none she met from her,
Who held a parent's place,
And should have been a comforter,
But turned a frigid face;
She called her “coward,” many a name
Child never tamely bore,
Till a fixed purpose fierce as flame,
Arose—to say no more.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
Hard was the mistress, stern and cold,
Who treated suffering thus,
And only mocked the tale she told,
As if an idle fuss;
She laughed at falls, bade Millie try
To bear a trifling pain,
And not for “nothing” weakly cry,
Or baby-like complain;
Indeed, she said pride must be thrown,
Turned rudely on her heel—
She had no children of her own,
Nor could for children feel.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
Who treated suffering thus,
And only mocked the tale she told,
As if an idle fuss;
She laughed at falls, bade Millie try
To bear a trifling pain,
And not for “nothing” weakly cry,
Or baby-like complain;
Indeed, she said pride must be thrown,
Turned rudely on her heel—
123
Nor could for children feel.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
And then the resolution sprang
Splendid, in that young mind,
Still to endure the awful pang,
When duty was so blind;
Still to go on in silent grief,
Whate'er might be the harm,
Though hidden pain, with no relief,
Gnawed at the pretty arm;
Still to keep silent her sad plight,
The story how she fell,
And though at last it killed outright,
Yet never never tell.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
Splendid, in that young mind,
Still to endure the awful pang,
When duty was so blind;
Still to go on in silent grief,
Whate'er might be the harm,
Though hidden pain, with no relief,
Gnawed at the pretty arm;
Still to keep silent her sad plight,
The story how she fell,
And though at last it killed outright,
Yet never never tell.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
And so she did, she calmly went
From lessons to her play,
Though ceaseless tortures racked and rent
The broken limb, all day;
And all the night, on sleepless bed
She lay, nor uttered cry,
Though the wild throbbings never fled,
And rose to agony;
Day after day, with white set face,
She played her conquering part,
And gathered fresh angelic grace,
With misery at heart.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Grey.
From lessons to her play,
Though ceaseless tortures racked and rent
The broken limb, all day;
And all the night, on sleepless bed
She lay, nor uttered cry,
Though the wild throbbings never fled,
And rose to agony;
Day after day, with white set face,
She played her conquering part,
And gathered fresh angelic grace,
With misery at heart.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Grey.
No thought of yielding, though more faint
And feeble she became—
As if had stept some martyr saint,
Forth from a picture-frame;
Her large gray eyes seemed larger still,
Beseeching, soft, and fond—
Like eyes, that through this earthly ill,
Look into worlds beyond;
Love found fair missions for her feet,
With more than childhood's power,
And all that makes a maiden sweet,
Burst into glorious flower.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
And feeble she became—
As if had stept some martyr saint,
Forth from a picture-frame;
Her large gray eyes seemed larger still,
Beseeching, soft, and fond—
Like eyes, that through this earthly ill,
Look into worlds beyond;
Love found fair missions for her feet,
With more than childhood's power,
And all that makes a maiden sweet,
Burst into glorious flower.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
Companions thought her kinder, changed
To something gentler, new,
From the wild darling who had ranged,
As each fresh fancy drew;
They scarcely marked the paler cheek,
To the old kisses turned,
Nor troubled in rude health to seek
The reason, why it burned;
Why oft from their caresses rough
She shrank, and even at noon
Of the old pleasures had enough,
And grew so weary soon.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
To something gentler, new,
124
As each fresh fancy drew;
They scarcely marked the paler cheek,
To the old kisses turned,
Nor troubled in rude health to seek
The reason, why it burned;
Why oft from their caresses rough
She shrank, and even at noon
Of the old pleasures had enough,
And grew so weary soon.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
Week followed week, and still she kept
Her bitter secret sure,
Nor wavered once, nor child-like wept,
Heroic to endure;
Heedless to count the loss or gain,
In her devoted part,
While waves of purifying pain
Swept through her virgin heart;
Till, without bowing broke the strength,
Compassion should have healed,
And death, more merciful, at length,
The dreadful truth revealed.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
Her bitter secret sure,
Nor wavered once, nor child-like wept,
Heroic to endure;
Heedless to count the loss or gain,
In her devoted part,
While waves of purifying pain
Swept through her virgin heart;
Till, without bowing broke the strength,
Compassion should have healed,
And death, more merciful, at length,
The dreadful truth revealed.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
The angels heard her call, one night,
Tost on her fiery bed,
And carried her to rest and light,
Whither the Saviour led;
That frame, for which no pity cared,
With all its wasted charm,
Showed then the broken bone, when bared,
Pierced through her pretty arm;
Tears fell from eyes unused to weep,
For that true noble maid,
Who so in silence dared to keep
Such woe, nor was afraid.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
Tost on her fiery bed,
And carried her to rest and light,
Whither the Saviour led;
That frame, for which no pity cared,
With all its wasted charm,
Showed then the broken bone, when bared,
Pierced through her pretty arm;
Tears fell from eyes unused to weep,
For that true noble maid,
Who so in silence dared to keep
Such woe, nor was afraid.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
Then let her give another name,
To our great golden year,
And be a portion of the fame
That makes old Devon dear;
And when we talk of gallant deed,
Done on the ocean wild,
By worthy men, in England's need,
Remember that fair child;
Who chose to bear the bitter pain,
And the more bitter lie,
And rather thus than once complain,
To suffer and to die.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
To our great golden year,
And be a portion of the fame
That makes old Devon dear;
And when we talk of gallant deed,
Done on the ocean wild,
By worthy men, in England's need,
Remember that fair child;
125
And the more bitter lie,
And rather thus than once complain,
To suffer and to die.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |