Women must weep :: :: University of Virginia Library

In a grimy attic on the gutter,
In a dark and doleful room,
With its paper'd panes and shaking shutter,
That let nothing in but gloom—
Where the floor had long not known the flutter
Of the housewife's brush or broom—
Where the cold was keen, and the silence utter
As the solitude of doom—
Sat a child, and she was playing, playing,
With a doll of gaudy tags,
And her yellow hair fell straying, straying,
On a filthy bed of rags;
She remember'd they went maying, maying,
By the river reeds and flags;
And her tender heart kept praying, praying,
For the mother's step that lags.

II

There was just a chair, and that was broken,
And the carpet running round,
Was the dirt, where feet had left the token
Of their tramp on muddy ground;

166

And the sooty walls were dash'd and soaken
With the rain that knew no bound,
And the tell-tale boards (if they had spoken)
Would have utter'd grievous sound.
And the dust in heaps was lying, lying,
In the corners still and dark,
Where small fingers had been trying, trying,
To inscribe their childish mark;
And the dingy smoke came flying, flying,
But it brought no friendly spark;
And the wind outside was crying, crying,
As the Dove outside the Ark.

III

And the child had lost the love of chatter,
Though her eyes were big and bright,
And a radiance round appear'd to scatter,
That was not an earthly light;
And the tiny feet had ceased to patter,
In their pretty wayward flight;
While the thin white lips had once been fatter,
And as roses to the sight.
She had now grown tired of sleeping, sleeping,
In her chill and lonely bed;
She was hungry with her weeping, weeping,
And she wanted to be fed;
For she long had fast been keeping, keeping,
As the heavy watches sped;
And the forms of ghosts seem'd creeping, creeping,
When the last of evening fled.

IV

She was but a child, she knew no better,
If she felt a little fear;
And she had no friend at hand to pet her,
Or to stay the rising tear;
And she could not read one crumpled letter
Of the picture that hung near;
And the window, rattling like a fetter,
Was a burden to her ear.

167

And the crazy stairs went creaking, creaking,
Like a thing in mortal pain,
As if now they must be speaking, speaking,
With a story for each stain;
And the cracking roof kept leaking, leaking,
At the onset of the rain,
Which on her its wrath was wreaking, wreaking,
Though she dared not even complain.

V

And her tatter'd doll was all her treasure,
In that chamber grim and gray,
As the last abiding beam of pleasure
From an earlier, happier day;
And she thirsted for a moment's leisure,
With her only toy to play;
For the suffering overflow'd its measure,
And the darkness in her lay.
But her doll she still kept pressing, pressing,
In her tired and trembling arms,
With the fingers feebly dressing, dressing,
Its forlorn and faded charms;
And the pale lips moved in blessing, blessing,
As she shielded it from harms;
While she strove with timid guessing, guessing.
To subdue her sad alarms.

VI

For a season, like a playful kitten,
That is purring by the grate,
She forgot, the teaching want had written
In the empty dish and plate—
She forgot how care had roughly smitten,
As if with the hand of hate—
How her face was sorely pinch'd and bitten,
By the famine of her fate—
She forgot the weakness flowing, flowing,
In the heart with troubles rife,
And the winds of sadness blowing, blowing,
For the bitter, bitter strife,

168

And her mother's weary sewing, sewing,
With the costly thread of life,
And the sharpen'd pang yet growing, growing,
Like a sharpen'd murderer's knife.

VII

And she listen'd to the raindrops' sputter,
As they beat against the glass;
From beneath arose a stupid stutter,
As she heard a drunkard pass;
And mysterious voices seem'd to mutter,
The old hymns beloved at class,
As she mumbled bread that had no butter
In its dry and mouldy mass.
For her mother still kept staying, staying,
Though she promised to come soon;
And a sudden visit paying, paying,
The malign and angry moon
Shone, a ghastly glimmer laying, laying,
On their solitary spoon;
While a far-off donkey's braying, braying,
Seem'd a blessed heavenly boon.

VIII

It was dainty hair, and soft and yellow,
That about her temples hung,
And around the doll that had no fellow,
Unto which she wildly clung;
But the stern north wind began to bellow,
And its stormy trumpet rung;
And the tender mouth, by care turned mellow,
To her treasure vainly sung.
For she felt the bondage cooping, cooping,
While her spirit longed to fly,
And its iron meshes looping, looping,
Like a chain across the sky;
And the sweet young head kept stooping, stooping,
Though she never reason'd why,
And her courage went on drooping, drooping,
When her heart could simply cry.

169

IX

For the opening bud was starved and stunted
By the icy blast of need;
And her joy its edge had wholly blunted,
Though the happy took no heed;
And aside from all her life was shunted,
As if just a worthless weed;
Till she seem'd a lonely creature hunted,
That is driven to die and bleed.
And it all came back, the ailing, ailing,
While it turned her faint and sick;
And the labouring breath kept failing, failing,
Like a candle's crumbling wick;
As she thought of cruel railing, railing,
And the coward blow or trick;
And amid the tempest, wailing, wailing,
Did she hear the death-watch tick?

X

And then ghostly paces seem'd to stumble,
As they clamber'd up the stairs,
With the handle of the door to fumble,
And to whistle dreadful airs;
And around her room to crawl and tumble,
Or to carry weights and chairs;
While within the chimney sounds would rumble,
Or from darkest nooks and lairs.
And there came a measured tapping, tapping,
As when fairy hammers fall,
With a sad and solemn rapping, rapping,
On the wainscot and the wall;
And the shutter, with its flapping, flapping,
Seem'd in dismal tones to call;
And the window-panes kept clapping, clapping,
As bewitch'd themselves like all.

XI

And she had no kindly friend or brother,
Whom for pity she could seek—
Who with smiles and talk her fears would smother,
And her tangled tresses sleek;

170

There was only one, the missing mother,
So caressing and so meek;
And she knew the world contain'd no other,
Who like her would stroke the cheek.
But the chimneys all went bobbing, bobbing,
In the gusts and twilight grey,
And the shadows gather'd mobbing, mobbing,
Their forlorn and helpless prey;
While the rats her food came robbing, robbing,
And more dreadful were than they;
Till the short, sharp breath broke sobbing, sobbing,
And her will would not obey.

XII

But the mother drudged for those who plunder,
By their starving pay, the low—
And who grind the weak, and keep them under,
While their cursèd riches grow,
Till the soul and worn-out body sunder,
While the tears of thousands flow—
Who are deaf to God's deep judgment-thunder,
That is storing up its blow.
And this night with footsteps plashing, plashing,
Through the rain and miry soil,
By the lamps like corpse-lights flashing, flashing,
She was creeping from her toil,
When a swerving horse came dashing, dashing,
Through the masses and the moil;
And the red blood spurted, splashing, splashing,
And her life became the spoil.

XIII

Ah! the weary struggle now was over,
And her face again look'd young,
And she walk'd again the fields of clover,
Where the lark and linnet sung,
As the passing spirit fondly wove her
The old earth whereto she clung,
And Thy kiss we miscall death, Jehovah,
In its joy about her hung;

171

And an end of all the wiling, wiling,
To inexpiable stain,
That is mask'd beneath the smiling, smiling,
As the blossom hides the pain,
Which beset her soul with guiling, guiling,
To the easy-purchased gain,
Like a felon who keeps filing, filing,
At the never-broken chain.

XIV

Yet her daughter reck'd not of the trouble
That had fallen upon the one
Who so halved her sorrows, and made double
The delights when work was done;
She was born herself a fleeting bubble
On the waves that seaward run—
She was blown, as whirlwinds blow the stubble,
In a world without a sun.
And the hours pass'd slowly, dragging, dragging,
With their still-increasing load—
The despairing spirit flagging, flagging,
On the ever-darkening road,
Like a hopeless prisoner fagging, fagging,
At the point of labour's goad;
Who, when all have left, keeps lagging, lagging,
In his duugeon with the toad.

XV

And the tunes from the remember'd psalter,
Were a-singing in her brain,
Which the wan lips strove indeed to falter,
But, alas! they strove in vain;
For the coming stroke she could not alter,
Though the pretty brow was fain;
Like a creature pulling at the halter,
Which is pulling it to pain.
But the angel-arms were plying, plying,
That her sinking might be soft;
And the angel-hands were drying, drying,
The great drops that trembled oft—

172

And the summer wind goes sighing, sighing,
Through a dusky, daisied croft;
For they knew that she was dying, dying,
And would bear her soon aloft.

XVI

But, before the dawn, the summons sounded,
And the captive burst her bond;
And the flying creature, fiercely hounded,
Had at length a welcome fond;
And the pining hope, so straitly bounded,
Found a resting to respond;
And the gloomy life was brightly rounded,
By the splendours from beyond.
And the waking birds came peeping, peeping,
Through the dirty muslin band,
And they made a gentle cheeping, cheeping,
At the place where they did stand;
The white wings of light went sweeping, sweeping,
Like an angel through the land,
And with heaven that face all steeping, steeping,
And the doll still in her hand.