 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
THE ASSIGNATION.
Pitiful, pale,
Earthly, not good—
As the world counts mummery stiff and stale,
And the hypocrite's pious hood,
That conceals what the graveyard should—
She remembered the old young tender tale,
That was murmured so long in that low vale,
And the answering of the nightingale,
As in wonderment she stood,
By the dimly-waving wood,
Looking up at the hill and down the dale,
For the loving that was her food;
Pitiful, pale,
In her snowy snood,
Was she weighed and found wanting in the scale;
Though she ventured all she could?
Earthly, not good—
As the world counts mummery stiff and stale,
And the hypocrite's pious hood,
135
She remembered the old young tender tale,
That was murmured so long in that low vale,
And the answering of the nightingale,
As in wonderment she stood,
By the dimly-waving wood,
Looking up at the hill and down the dale,
For the loving that was her food;
Pitiful, pale,
In her snowy snood,
Was she weighed and found wanting in the scale;
Though she ventured all she could?
Trill, trill,
From the leafy shade,
Throbbed upon her heart with its maddening thrill,
Which the perjured Dives bade
Return to the wreck he made,
As they raced with the echoes o'er the hill,
And pursued the ripples that gemmed the rill,
Or displayed to the whispering ground their skill;
And she shook like the dewy blade,
Like the rose that began to fade
By her bosom, where he had vowed through ill
To abide, and be her aid;
Trill, trill,
From the haunted glade,
Like a sword arose that fain would kill
But her sin must first upbraid.
From the leafy shade,
Throbbed upon her heart with its maddening thrill,
Which the perjured Dives bade
Return to the wreck he made,
As they raced with the echoes o'er the hill,
And pursued the ripples that gemmed the rill,
Or displayed to the whispering ground their skill;
And she shook like the dewy blade,
Like the rose that began to fade
By her bosom, where he had vowed through ill
To abide, and be her aid;
Trill, trill,
From the haunted glade,
Like a sword arose that fain would kill
But her sin must first upbraid.
Beautiful, sweet,
Trustful and fond,
She was true herself with unswerving feet,
She believed that his hand was bond,
As it touched like a magic wand,
That the starlight could in the sunlight meet,
And the jewel match with the stone from street,
And the lightning would not blast if greet;
For her lesson was not conn'd,
How the mud of the foulest pond,
Is yet cleaner than the promise fleet,
Which has nothing save lust beyond;
Beautiful, sweet,
In the moonshine donn'd,
Which was wedding-robe and her winding-sheet,
Should she now so sore despond?
Trustful and fond,
She was true herself with unswerving feet,
She believed that his hand was bond,
As it touched like a magic wand,
That the starlight could in the sunlight meet,
And the jewel match with the stone from street,
And the lightning would not blast if greet;
For her lesson was not conn'd,
How the mud of the foulest pond,
Is yet cleaner than the promise fleet,
Which has nothing save lust beyond;
Beautiful, sweet,
In the moonshine donn'd,
Which was wedding-robe and her winding-sheet,
Should she now so sore despond?
Hark! Hark!
O ye earth and sky,
He has sworn to the trysting in his park,
And the tempest that rolled by,
In its thunder made reply,
That the God who over-rules would mark,
Who doth fan the faith with its dying spark,
And can feel for even the lap-dog's bark,
Or the woman-child's faint cry,
That with broken wings would fly,
To the heaven where sings the soaring lark,
From this hideous human sty;
Hark! Hark!
And she wonders why
It is dim without and within more dark,
And the world seems all awry.
O ye earth and sky,
He has sworn to the trysting in his park,
And the tempest that rolled by,
In its thunder made reply,
That the God who over-rules would mark,
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And can feel for even the lap-dog's bark,
Or the woman-child's faint cry,
That with broken wings would fly,
To the heaven where sings the soaring lark,
From this hideous human sty;
Hark! Hark!
And she wonders why
It is dim without and within more dark,
And the world seems all awry.
Timid and weak,
Innocent, pure
In her purpose set as a sunny peak,
Of herself she was so sure,
Far above the vulgar lure,
Which in her would not find a faulty leak,
To her maiden spirit could not speak,
On her woman's will might never wreak
A wound that defies a cure,
To which time did not inure;
Should she deem his troth was a wayward freak,
That an hour might just endure?
Timid and weak,
Shy and demure,
She had slipt in the ruin she did not seek,
From which beauty could not secure.
Innocent, pure
In her purpose set as a sunny peak,
Of herself she was so sure,
Far above the vulgar lure,
Which in her would not find a faulty leak,
To her maiden spirit could not speak,
On her woman's will might never wreak
A wound that defies a cure,
To which time did not inure;
Should she deem his troth was a wayward freak,
That an hour might just endure?
Timid and weak,
Shy and demure,
She had slipt in the ruin she did not seek,
From which beauty could not secure.
Soft, slow,
From the hollow tree,
Came the measured hoot, like the hostile blow
Of the weapon that foot might flee,
If the eye could only see—
If the shadows did not creep and grow,
And the awful silence would not throw
Such a freezing spell on the blood's quick flow,
And the planets two or three
Would not bind her movements free;
For she felt like a puppet in a show,
Of which life itself is fee;
Soft, slow,
Sank her trembling knee
In the terror of the gloom and glow,
Which to mock could but agree.
From the hollow tree,
Came the measured hoot, like the hostile blow
Of the weapon that foot might flee,
If the eye could only see—
If the shadows did not creep and grow,
And the awful silence would not throw
Such a freezing spell on the blood's quick flow,
And the planets two or three
Would not bind her movements free;
For she felt like a puppet in a show,
Of which life itself is fee;
Soft, slow,
Sank her trembling knee
In the terror of the gloom and glow,
Which to mock could but agree.
Credulous, coy,
Foolish and fair,
She had been unto him a mere trifling toy,
While he played with her wondrous hair,
And the tresses tried to pair;
It was only to him a bubble's joy,
That in later mood would as lightly cloy,
And no more his fickle fancy buoy—
Just a passing pleasant air,
Or a moment's helpful stair,
Which another moment might annoy,
When he sat in his lordly chair;
Credulous, coy,
In the lion's lair
She had fallen, and her he must destroy,
Who his Saviour did not spare.
Foolish and fair,
She had been unto him a mere trifling toy,
While he played with her wondrous hair,
And the tresses tried to pair;
It was only to him a bubble's joy,
137
And no more his fickle fancy buoy—
Just a passing pleasant air,
Or a moment's helpful stair,
Which another moment might annoy,
When he sat in his lordly chair;
Credulous, coy,
In the lion's lair
She had fallen, and her he must destroy,
Who his Saviour did not spare.
Up, down,
Went the nodding grass,
Where it wavered coldly white and brown,
Like the shades in a magic glass,
As if eager to now let pass
The one form that oceans could not drown,
Nor the desert banish with its frown,
That to her was adorned with hero's crown;
For she thought in the common mass,
He outgrew his kind and class,
Yet she worshipped a king who was a clown
And an idol but of brass;
Up, down,
Went the flickering gas,
From the castle top and the far-off town,
And the night-wind sighed, “Alas.”
Went the nodding grass,
Where it wavered coldly white and brown,
Like the shades in a magic glass,
As if eager to now let pass
The one form that oceans could not drown,
Nor the desert banish with its frown,
That to her was adorned with hero's crown;
For she thought in the common mass,
He outgrew his kind and class,
Yet she worshipped a king who was a clown
And an idol but of brass;
Up, down,
Went the flickering gas,
From the castle top and the far-off town,
And the night-wind sighed, “Alas.”
Maidenly now,
Delicate yet,
With the light of the passion on her brow,
And the eyes upturned and wet,
That so lately he would pet,
With the words which a virgin bosom bow,
Which no dream of death could avail to cow,
When the heart is given it knows not how—
She was promised and would be met,
And the sweet caress be set
As a seal, to remind him of his vow,
Or half payment of the debt;
Maidenly now,
Childish to fret,
If his promise was pledged—he did allow,
And he dares not nor shall forget,
Delicate yet,
With the light of the passion on her brow,
And the eyes upturned and wet,
That so lately he would pet,
With the words which a virgin bosom bow,
Which no dream of death could avail to cow,
When the heart is given it knows not how—
She was promised and would be met,
And the sweet caress be set
As a seal, to remind him of his vow,
Or half payment of the debt;
Maidenly now,
Childish to fret,
If his promise was pledged—he did allow,
And he dares not nor shall forget,
Lost, lone,
At the trysting place,
She was lingering still and heard no tone,
And she nowhere saw the trace
Of that proud familiar face,
But the misty line of the starry zone,
As it struggled through a cloudy cone,
Though his loving looks within her shone,
With a strange and noble grace;
And his strong imperial pace,
As it sank in mosses or struck a stone,
Like the sun along its race;
Lost, lone,
In the ghostly space
Then her hand fell chill on some victim's bone,
Which survived the worm's embrace.
At the trysting place,
She was lingering still and heard no tone,
And she nowhere saw the trace
Of that proud familiar face,
But the misty line of the starry zone,
138
Though his loving looks within her shone,
With a strange and noble grace;
And his strong imperial pace,
As it sank in mosses or struck a stone,
Like the sun along its race;
Lost, lone,
In the ghostly space
Then her hand fell chill on some victim's bone,
Which survived the worm's embrace.
Terribly clear,
Sinister, grave,
Rang a voice in the chambers of her ear,
As the beat of a stormy wave
In a desolate ocean cave,
And it seemed just a sentence tolling near,
On a life that was blasted, black and drear,
While it syllabled solemn words of fear—
“I am coming but not to save,
Nor with kisses that women crave,
And I carry the doom of the judgment spear,
That descends on the fallen slave”;
Terribly clear,
Funeral stave,
Did it laugh at the penitential tear,
And the bosom that would be brave?
Sinister, grave,
Rang a voice in the chambers of her ear,
As the beat of a stormy wave
In a desolate ocean cave,
And it seemed just a sentence tolling near,
On a life that was blasted, black and drear,
While it syllabled solemn words of fear—
“I am coming but not to save,
Nor with kisses that women crave,
And I carry the doom of the judgment spear,
That descends on the fallen slave”;
Terribly clear,
Funeral stave,
Did it laugh at the penitential tear,
And the bosom that would be brave?
Lost, late,
In her human grief,
She had hoped through that weary watch the mate,
Who had played the dastard thief,
For a season base and brief,
Might yet come once more by the garden gate,
Nor would leave her to the outcast's fate,
While he ate and drank from his silver plate—
Could not make his pleasure chief,
And deny the pledged relief,
To the child he brought to that low state,
Who had erred from fond belief;
Lost, late,
With the dropping leaf,
Should she deem his delight now sere as hate,
And the harvest would have no sheaf?
In her human grief,
She had hoped through that weary watch the mate,
Who had played the dastard thief,
For a season base and brief,
Might yet come once more by the garden gate,
Nor would leave her to the outcast's fate,
While he ate and drank from his silver plate—
Could not make his pleasure chief,
And deny the pledged relief,
To the child he brought to that low state,
Who had erred from fond belief;
Lost, late,
With the dropping leaf,
Should she deem his delight now sere as hate,
And the harvest would have no sheaf?
Faithful to him,
Drooping the head,
That began with its weeping wild to swim,
In the anguish none had read
Of the dark hands dumbly spread,
She could only think of the pastures prim,
And the moonlight stroll by the water's brim,
When he praised her figure tall and trim,
While he smiled away her dread,
With his firmer talk and tread,
As he swore she should leave her corner dim,
And be sharer of his bread;
Faithful to him,
Like a broken thread,
The poor life was cleft for a scoundrel's whim,
And an infinite heart lay dead.
Drooping the head,
That began with its weeping wild to swim,
In the anguish none had read
Of the dark hands dumbly spread,
She could only think of the pastures prim,
139
When he praised her figure tall and trim,
While he smiled away her dread,
With his firmer talk and tread,
As he swore she should leave her corner dim,
And be sharer of his bread;
Faithful to him,
Like a broken thread,
The poor life was cleft for a scoundrel's whim,
And an infinite heart lay dead.
Weep, weep,
For the woman's shame,
Which would stab her still in the troubled sleep,
Which would always be the same,
And around as a picture's frame,—
Which would always yet more ghastly creep,
And would gather gloom more dire and deep,
And the trustful soul in horror steep;
But a curse for the coward's game,
When he soiled his sister's fame,
Who is still decoyed as the simple sheep,
While she bears alone the blame;
Weep, weep,
Be the teardrops flame,
For the heart that could not its honour keep,
And the doom alone that came.
For the woman's shame,
Which would stab her still in the troubled sleep,
Which would always be the same,
And around as a picture's frame,—
Which would always yet more ghastly creep,
And would gather gloom more dire and deep,
And the trustful soul in horror steep;
But a curse for the coward's game,
When he soiled his sister's fame,
Who is still decoyed as the simple sheep,
While she bears alone the blame;
Weep, weep,
Be the teardrops flame,
For the heart that could not its honour keep,
And the doom alone that came.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |