 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
THE BUNCH OF FLOWERS.
Oh, why did she stagger, stop and reel,
In her blazing scarlet sin,
And swing round as if swooning on her heel,
From the mortal blow of a piercing steel,
Which had found a pathway in,
Through the pretty painted skin?
Had she slipt on a scrap of orange peel,
Or grown dizzy from the din
And the fiery gulp of gin?
Did a flash of sorrow bid her feel
In a moment all her shame, and kneel
To the God who is our Kin?
In her blazing scarlet sin,
And swing round as if swooning on her heel,
From the mortal blow of a piercing steel,
Which had found a pathway in,
Through the pretty painted skin?
Had she slipt on a scrap of orange peel,
Or grown dizzy from the din
And the fiery gulp of gin?
Did a flash of sorrow bid her feel
In a moment all her shame, and kneel
To the God who is our Kin?
Lo, the prim policeman in his jaunt,
Who the helmet stayed to don
He had loosened to wipe his brow, and flaunt
In the face of the children it might daunt,
Gave a glance at her features wan,
Which he hardly cared to con,
As he blessed his lot with a selfish vaunt,
That the sunlight on him shone,
And his day was nearly gone;
While he thrust her back with a brutal taunt,
To the brothel and the drunkard's haunt,
And said foughly, “Girl, move on.”
Who the helmet stayed to don
He had loosened to wipe his brow, and flaunt
In the face of the children it might daunt,
Gave a glance at her features wan,
Which he hardly cared to con,
As he blessed his lot with a selfish vaunt,
That the sunlight on him shone,
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While he thrust her back with a brutal taunt,
To the brothel and the drunkard's haunt,
And said foughly, “Girl, move on.”
But she saw him not in her utter need,
And she felt not the cruel hand,
And she heard not the bitter words to speed
Her away from the pavement, as a weed
That must fly from the garden land,
And is under the curse and brand;
To the passing world she had lent no heed,
If they bound her in prison band,
And the hour-glass with its sand
Had run out, and her forfeit life should bleed,
Which had sown for the gallows deadly seed,
That black fruit would now demand.
And she felt not the cruel hand,
And she heard not the bitter words to speed
Her away from the pavement, as a weed
That must fly from the garden land,
And is under the curse and brand;
To the passing world she had lent no heed,
If they bound her in prison band,
And the hour-glass with its sand
Had run out, and her forfeit life should bleed,
Which had sown for the gallows deadly seed,
That black fruit would now demand.
And if men should mock at her evil stress,
Or the earth refuse to pay
What it lavished upon the nobler dress,
Of the titled harlot none would guess,
Who was wrought of viler clay,
Though her head in the purple lay,
Which the purchased priestly lips might bless,
When in public she would pray;
Yet she marked not sinful sway,
If the riches' glow made the stain look less,
And to her was doled not one caress,
For her heart was far away.
Or the earth refuse to pay
What it lavished upon the nobler dress,
Of the titled harlot none would guess,
Who was wrought of viler clay,
Though her head in the purple lay,
Which the purchased priestly lips might bless,
When in public she would pray;
Yet she marked not sinful sway,
If the riches' glow made the stain look less,
And to her was doled not one caress,
For her heart was far away.
Ah, why did she totter so and turn,
With the wild and wondering look
Of a soul, that this little stage would spurn,
And go back once more to its Orient urn,
When it laughed as a limpid brook,
And a purer channel took?
Did the fire from Heaven within her burn,
Which illumined her heart's black book,
And her shadowy bosom shook?
In that dreary life would her spirit yearn,
For the lessons that the children learn,
Who the fold never yet forsook?
With the wild and wondering look
Of a soul, that this little stage would spurn,
And go back once more to its Orient urn,
When it laughed as a limpid brook,
And a purer channel took?
Did the fire from Heaven within her burn,
Which illumined her heart's black book,
And her shadowy bosom shook?
In that dreary life would her spirit yearn,
For the lessons that the children learn,
Who the fold never yet forsook?
She had sallied forth in her beauty's pride,
To the quiet evening hours,
And again on her sinful track would slide,
Where the gallants lounge and the toilers glide,
And the stately palace towers—
Where wealth of its glory showers,
And the knaves in their blazoned coaches ride,
That are bought with widows' dowers,
And were built of blood-won powers;
And she saw by a crossing in the tide,
Just a country child at her very side,
Who held out but a bunch of flowers.
To the quiet evening hours,
And again on her sinful track would slide,
Where the gallants lounge and the toilers glide,
And the stately palace towers—
Where wealth of its glory showers,
And the knaves in their blazoned coaches ride,
That are bought with widows' dowers,
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And she saw by a crossing in the tide,
Just a country child at her very side,
Who held out but a bunch of flowers.
It was only a bunch of hawthorn bloom,
Nothing more than the common sprays
From a country hedge, with the yellow broom
She had twined round the pony she would groom,
In the dim forgotten days,
When she walked in other ways;
But it carried her back to the dear old room,
And she sees the dusty rays
Fall again, as the shadow plays
On the cottage far through which faces loom;
And it looked like a solemn sight of doom,
When the parting spirit prays.
Nothing more than the common sprays
From a country hedge, with the yellow broom
She had twined round the pony she would groom,
In the dim forgotten days,
When she walked in other ways;
But it carried her back to the dear old room,
And she sees the dusty rays
Fall again, as the shadow plays
On the cottage far through which faces loom;
And it looked like a solemn sight of doom,
When the parting spirit prays.
Just a handful of blossoms white and pink,
Such as she had often found
On the primrose banks, where the footsteps sink
Through the grass and dews that the mosses drink,
When there comes a singing sound
From the many-coloured ground—
Where the violets blue from their refuge blink,
And red lichens gather round
The decaying bar and bound;
But it wrought with the past a ghostly link
And she stood once more on the crumbling brink
Of the sea, that myriads drown'd.
Such as she had often found
On the primrose banks, where the footsteps sink
Through the grass and dews that the mosses drink,
When there comes a singing sound
From the many-coloured ground—
Where the violets blue from their refuge blink,
And red lichens gather round
The decaying bar and bound;
But it wrought with the past a ghostly link
And she stood once more on the crumbling brink
Of the sea, that myriads drown'd.
In a moment all her life lay bare,
At the flash of that lurid light,
Which unveiled the form of every care,
And the direst memory would not spare,
Nor the tenderest secret sight,—
Like a thunder bolt at night;
Till her trembling reason did not dare,
As it grasped her bitter plight
In the lost unequal fight,
For a minute meet the accusing glare,
And the record that she would not share,
Which was hers by hateful right.
At the flash of that lurid light,
Which unveiled the form of every care,
And the direst memory would not spare,
Nor the tenderest secret sight,—
Like a thunder bolt at night;
Till her trembling reason did not dare,
As it grasped her bitter plight
In the lost unequal fight,
For a minute meet the accusing glare,
And the record that she would not share,
Which was hers by hateful right.
Oh, she seemed again a modest child,
In her little maiden cot,
Where her happy dreams were true and mild,
And her fancy did not wander wild
On the paths, that only blot
The repose of fairest lot;
And again her mother on her smil'd,
While she bathed her bosom hot,
Where the bruise still left a spot
Which was grace itself, to what defil'd
All the Godlike heart that its God revil'd,
When it woman's crown forgot.
In her little maiden cot,
Where her happy dreams were true and mild,
And her fancy did not wander wild
On the paths, that only blot
The repose of fairest lot;
And again her mother on her smil'd,
While she bathed her bosom hot,
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Which was grace itself, to what defil'd
All the Godlike heart that its God revil'd,
When it woman's crown forgot.
For a while the staring street had fled,
With its rude and wrangling crowd,
With the idlers who on pleasure sped,
And the wounded souls that toiled and bled,
As they framed their funeral shroud,
That the revellers might laugh loud,
And the sunshine be more sharply shed
On the lonely sufferer's cloud,
In her innocence pure and proud;
And again the cooing doves she fed,
And watered the big geranium bed,
Or at homelier duties bow'd.
With its rude and wrangling crowd,
With the idlers who on pleasure sped,
And the wounded souls that toiled and bled,
As they framed their funeral shroud,
That the revellers might laugh loud,
And the sunshine be more sharply shed
On the lonely sufferer's cloud,
In her innocence pure and proud;
And again the cooing doves she fed,
And watered the big geranium bed,
Or at homelier duties bow'd.
But a pulse or two of the fleeting time,
And her startled thoughts went back
To the bees that murmured in the lime,
And the breezes of a softer clime
Where the daisies hid her track,
And there gaped no earthquake crack;
Ah, she heard once more the harvest chime,
And beheld the rising stack
Which defied the wolf of Lack;
From her jewelled shame and gilded slime,
It all looked like a rainbow's foot sublime,
As it flies from a hopeless wrack.
And her startled thoughts went back
To the bees that murmured in the lime,
And the breezes of a softer clime
Where the daisies hid her track,
And there gaped no earthquake crack;
Ah, she heard once more the harvest chime,
And beheld the rising stack
Which defied the wolf of Lack;
From her jewelled shame and gilded slime,
It all looked like a rainbow's foot sublime,
As it flies from a hopeless wrack.
And she then returned to the blasting stain,
Which had pierced into the quick,
And she felt an unfamiliar pain,
Like the gnawing of a prison chain,
Which doth ever drag and stick,
Till her spirit trembled sick;
And a darkness set within her brain,
She recalled the dastard trick,
And the serpent's loving lick,
Ere his victim felt the deadly strain,
When her wildest efforts proved but vain,
And the fangs began to prick.
Which had pierced into the quick,
And she felt an unfamiliar pain,
Like the gnawing of a prison chain,
Which doth ever drag and stick,
Till her spirit trembled sick;
And a darkness set within her brain,
She recalled the dastard trick,
And the serpent's loving lick,
Ere his victim felt the deadly strain,
When her wildest efforts proved but vain,
And the fangs began to prick.
And it all came surging on her gaze,
The old pavement she had trod,
As she blindly looked through the splendid haze
Of voluptuous sin—that maddening maze,
Which concealed the judgment rod,
Like the bones beneath the sod;
And it seemed so dreadful and to daze,
That she wondered how she still could plod
On that evil quest, at vice's nod,
And had never burst from the mocking blaze,
Which the courts infernal well might graze,
And was still afar from God.
The old pavement she had trod,
As she blindly looked through the splendid haze
Of voluptuous sin—that maddening maze,
Which concealed the judgment rod,
Like the bones beneath the sod;
And it seemed so dreadful and to daze,
That she wondered how she still could plod
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And had never burst from the mocking blaze,
Which the courts infernal well might graze,
And was still afar from God.
And, behold, a fire within her burned,
That no charm would ever choke,
While the dazzling show it fiercely spurned,
And for something purer, fairer, yearned,
Than the gay and gilded yoke
With the ashes nought could cloke;
And a glimpse of peace that was not earned,
As remorse deep in her spoke,
From the Heaven above her broke;
And when once the guilt her love discerned,
To her better self her heart returned,
And the higher life awoke.
That no charm would ever choke,
While the dazzling show it fiercely spurned,
And for something purer, fairer, yearned,
Than the gay and gilded yoke
With the ashes nought could cloke;
And a glimpse of peace that was not earned,
As remorse deep in her spoke,
From the Heaven above her broke;
And when once the guilt her love discerned,
To her better self her heart returned,
And the higher life awoke.
And the flowers long blighted in her breast,
With the graces she did not prize,
Were now shaken from their winter rest,
And the frozen soil that on them prest,
And shone out from her weeping eyes,
Into new-born earth and skies;
And she knew for her was a refuge blest,
In a hush of awed surprise,
Though the world would her despise,
That no prim policeman could molest,
If the loathèd sin were all confest,
And the Saviour said “Arise.”
With the graces she did not prize,
Were now shaken from their winter rest,
And the frozen soil that on them prest,
And shone out from her weeping eyes,
Into new-born earth and skies;
And she knew for her was a refuge blest,
In a hush of awed surprise,
Though the world would her despise,
That no prim policeman could molest,
If the loathèd sin were all confest,
And the Saviour said “Arise.”
There was joy in the lofty realms of Light,
And a new exultant sound,
At the sinner who returned that night,
In the dew of her repentance bright;
While the mud seemed holy ground,
And the captive pale and bound,
Took a courage fresh from the great sight,
Which reflected glory round,
And the gyves with roses wound;
The enfranchised soul regained its right,
And put on a sweet immortal might,
When the wandering child was found,
And a new exultant sound,
At the sinner who returned that night,
In the dew of her repentance bright;
While the mud seemed holy ground,
And the captive pale and bound,
Took a courage fresh from the great sight,
Which reflected glory round,
And the gyves with roses wound;
The enfranchised soul regained its right,
And put on a sweet immortal might,
When the wandering child was found,
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |