The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard :: :: University of Virginia Library

The lamps are lighted, the streets are full,
For coming and going like waves of the sea,
Thousands are out this beautiful night;
They jostle each other, but shrink from me.
Men hurry by with a stealthy glance,
Women pass with their eyes cast down;
Even the children seem to know
The shameless girl of the town.

Hated and shunned I walk the street,
Hunting—for what? For my prey, 'tis said;
I look at it, though, in a different light,
For this nightly shame is my daily bread:
My food, my shelter, the clothes I wear,
Only for this I might starve or drown;
The world has disowned me—what can I do
But live and die on the town?

The world is cruel. It may be right
To crush the harlot, but, grant it so,
What made her the guilty thing she is?
For she was innocent once, you know.

243

'Twas love! That terrible word tells all.
She loved a man and blindly believed
His vows, his kisses, his crocodile tears;
Of course the fool was deceived.

What had I to gain by a moment's sin
To weigh in the scale with my innocent years,
My womanly shame, my ruined name,
My father's curses, my mother's tears?
The love of a man! It was something to give,
Was it worth it? The price was a soul paid down,
Did I get a soul, his soul in exchange?
Behold me here on the town!

“Your guilt was heavy,” the world will say,
“And heavy, heavy your doom must be;
For to pity and pardon woman's fall
Is to set no value on chastity.
You undervalue the virgin's crown,
The spotless honor that makes her dear.”
But I ought to know what the bauble is worth,
When the loss of it brings me here!

But pity and pardon? Who are you
To talk of pardon, pity, to me?
What I ask is justice, justice, sir,
Let both be punished, or both go free.
If it be in woman a dreadful thing,
What is it in man, now? Come, be just.
(Remember, she falls through her love for him,
He through his selfish lust.)

Tell me what is done to the wretch
Who tempts and riots in woman's fall?
His father curses, and casts him off?
His friends forsake? He is scorned of all?

244

Not he. His judges are men like himself,
Or thoughtless women who humor their whim.
“Young blood,” “Wild oats,” “Better hush it up.”
They soon forget it—in him!

Even his mother, who ought to know
The woman-nature, and how it is won,
Frames a thousand excuses for him,
Because, forsooth, the man is her son.
You have daughters, madam, (he told me so,)
Fair, innocent daughters—“Woman, what then?”
Some mother may have a son like yours,
Bid them beware of men!

I saw his coach in the street to-day,
Dashing along on the sunny side,
With a liveried driver on the box:
Lolling back in her listless pride
The wife of his bosom took the air.
She was bought in the mart where hearts are sold:
I gave myself away for his love,
She sold herself for his gold.

He lives, they say, in a princely way,
Flattered and feasted. One dark night
Some devil led me to pass his house.
I saw the windows a blaze of light;
The music whirled in a maddening round,
I heard the fall of the dancers' feet:
Bitter, bitter the thoughts I had,
Standing there in the street.

Back to my gaudy den I went,
Marched to my room in grim despair,
Dried my eyes, painted my cheeks,
And fixed a flower or two in my hair.

245

Corks were popping, wine was flowing,
I seized a bumper, and tossed it down:
One must do something to kill the time,
And fit one's self for the town.

I meet his boy in the park sometimes,
And my heart runs over towards the child;
A frank little fellow with fearless eyes,
He smiles at me as his father smiled.
I hate the man, but I love the boy,
For I think what my own, had he lived, would be:
Perhaps it is he, come back from the dead—
To his father, alas, not me!

But I stand too long in the shadow here,
Let me out in the light again.
Now for insult, blows, perhaps,
And bitterer still my own disdain.
I take my place in the crowded street,
Not like the simple women I see:
You may cheat them, men, as much as you please,
You wear no masks with me.

I know ye! Under your honeyed words
There lurks a serpent; your oaths are lies.
There's a lustful fire in your hungry hearts,
I see it flaming up in your eyes!
Cling to them, ladies, and shrink from me,
Or rail at my boldness. Well, have you done?
Madam, your husband knows me well,
Mother, I know your son.

But go your ways, and I'll go mine:
Call me opprobrious names if you will;
The truth is bitter, think I have lied:
“A harlot?” Yes, but a woman still.

246

God said of old to a woman like me,
“Go, sin no more,” or your Bibles lie.
But you, you mangle his merciful words
To “Go, and sin till you die!”

Die! The word has a pleasant sound,
The sweetest I've heard this many a year.
It seems to promise an end to pain,
Anyway it will end it here.
Suppose I throw myself in the street?
Before the horses could trample me down,
Some would-be friend might snatch me up,
And thrust me back on the town.

But look—the river! From where I stand
I see it, I almost hear it flow.
Down on the dark and lonely pier—
It is but a step—I can end my woe.
A plunge, a splash, and all will be o'er,
The death-black waters will drag me down;
God knows where! But no matter where,
So I am off the town!