 | The cry of the woman-child |  |
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THE CRY OF THE WOMAN-CHILD.
She was only a slip of a child,
Wayward, and fond, and sweet,
Like a flower that blossoms wild,
When the spring and summer meet;
She was dainty and undefiled,
And the world seemed under her feet:
And alas for the woman-child,
Who is thrown on the miry street!
Wayward, and fond, and sweet,
Like a flower that blossoms wild,
When the spring and summer meet;
She was dainty and undefiled,
And the world seemed under her feet:
And alas for the woman-child,
Who is thrown on the miry street!
In the happy twilight space,
When the shades their curtain spin,
She had learned the wondrous grace
Of the Man who is our kin;
But never she knew how base
Was her brother of earth within:
And alas for the baby face,
Which is early streaked with sin!
When the shades their curtain spin,
She had learned the wondrous grace
Of the Man who is our kin;
But never she knew how base
Was her brother of earth within:
And alas for the baby face,
Which is early streaked with sin!
She was only a bit of a girl,
Tender and fresh from school,
To be caught in the cruel swirl
Of the black and boiling pool—
To be dragged beneath in the whirl,
An ignorant, pretty fool:
And alas for the innocent girl,
Who is made the rich man's tool!
Tender and fresh from school,
To be caught in the cruel swirl
Of the black and boiling pool—
To be dragged beneath in the whirl,
An ignorant, pretty fool:
And alas for the innocent girl,
Who is made the rich man's tool!
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As free as the birds that fly,
Where the labourers slowly plod,
As fair as the violet shy,
Which peeps through the winter sod,
As bright as the open sky,
In her purity she trod:
And alas for the children's cry
That goes up to the throne of God!
Where the labourers slowly plod,
As fair as the violet shy,
Which peeps through the winter sod,
As bright as the open sky,
In her purity she trod:
And alas for the children's cry
That goes up to the throne of God!
She was only a little maid
From her quiet cottage home,
Half forward and half afraid;
With the scent of the country loam—
With the light of the dewy blade,
And the freshness of the foam:
And alas for the helpless maid,
When her steps begin to roam!
From her quiet cottage home,
Half forward and half afraid;
With the scent of the country loam—
With the light of the dewy blade,
And the freshness of the foam:
And alas for the helpless maid,
When her steps begin to roam!
Like a bee that sweetness sips,
When the meadows all are dry,
From the weed that honey drips,
Though the flowerets droop and die,
She had strayed where the storm-cloud dips,
And the sunbeams fade and fly:
And alas for the rose-red lips,
That answer the sugared lie!
When the meadows all are dry,
From the weed that honey drips,
Though the flowerets droop and die,
She had strayed where the storm-cloud dips,
And the sunbeams fade and fly:
And alas for the rose-red lips,
That answer the sugared lie!
She was only a silly lass,
On her life about to start,
Unskilled in the rocks to pass,
Unwarned of the tempter's art;
And the earth was a magic glass,
That gave back her guileless heart;
And it's oh for the simple lass,
Who is sold in the Devil's mart.
On her life about to start,
Unskilled in the rocks to pass,
Unwarned of the tempter's art;
And the earth was a magic glass,
That gave back her guileless heart;
And it's oh for the simple lass,
Who is sold in the Devil's mart.
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There were gardens gaily planned,
Though the worm was at the root;
In the brothers kind and grand,
Lay the demon and the brute;
And out of corruption's land,
Came the tallest bud and shoot:
And alas for the stainless hand,
When it plays with the poison fruit!
Though the worm was at the root;
In the brothers kind and grand,
Lay the demon and the brute;
And out of corruption's land,
Came the tallest bud and shoot:
And alas for the stainless hand,
When it plays with the poison fruit!
She was only a mother's pet,
A creature whom all would trust,
Imperious, wilful, yet
Like a straw in the angry gust;
With the pitfalls round her set,
At the mercy of man's lust:
And alas for the unsoiled pet,
Should she fall in the fouling dust!
A creature whom all would trust,
Imperious, wilful, yet
Like a straw in the angry gust;
With the pitfalls round her set,
At the mercy of man's lust:
And alas for the unsoiled pet,
Should she fall in the fouling dust!
Where the stately mansions rise,
Went she wandering to her fate,
Where the wealth its victims buys
For the passion it cannot sate,
On a pathway paved with sighs,
To the gilt infernal gate:
And alas, for the heavenly eyes,
If they look at the earthly bait!
Went she wandering to her fate,
Where the wealth its victims buys
For the passion it cannot sate,
On a pathway paved with sighs,
To the gilt infernal gate:
And alas, for the heavenly eyes,
If they look at the earthly bait!
She was only a father's pride,
The pick of a radiant wreath,
Borne along by the dancing tide,
With the waft of the blossom's breath:
A credulous baby bride,
But married to ghastly death:
And alas for the blushing pride,
Which is plunged in the night beneath!
The pick of a radiant wreath,
Borne along by the dancing tide,
With the waft of the blossom's breath:
A credulous baby bride,
But married to ghastly death:
And alas for the blushing pride,
Which is plunged in the night beneath!
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There was laughter to smooth the road,
There were voices that seemed to sing,
There were burdens that did not load,
And the shadow folded its wing;
The fountain with sweetness flowed,
And the pain had a pleasant ring;
And alas for the secret goad,
And the lips with a bitter sting!
There were voices that seemed to sing,
There were burdens that did not load,
And the shadow folded its wing;
The fountain with sweetness flowed,
And the pain had a pleasant ring;
And alas for the secret goad,
And the lips with a bitter sting!
She was only a delicate dove,
Just fluttering from the nest,
Half fledged, and with dreams of love,
On a childish, aimless quest,
To purchase a riband or glove,
Unaware of the damnèd pest:
And alas for the weary dove,
When her soul can find no rest!
Just fluttering from the nest,
Half fledged, and with dreams of love,
On a childish, aimless quest,
To purchase a riband or glove,
Unaware of the damnèd pest:
And alas for the weary dove,
When her soul can find no rest!
Not wicked our sister, but weak:
To know what the great world had
Of wonder a girl might seek,
She flitted with footstep glad;
Like a lamb to the slaughter meek,
Sucked into the whirlpool mad:
And alas for the dimpled cheek,
If the cherries are seer and sad!
To know what the great world had
Of wonder a girl might seek,
She flitted with footstep glad;
Like a lamb to the slaughter meek,
Sucked into the whirlpool mad:
And alas for the dimpled cheek,
If the cherries are seer and sad!
She was only a doll, with hair
As fired with the sunshine's flame,
With her untaught foolish air;
Like a picture out of its frame,
Tricked to the altar stair,
And the offering without name:
And alas for the glorious hair,
That is turned to a crown of shame!
As fired with the sunshine's flame,
With her untaught foolish air;
Like a picture out of its frame,
Tricked to the altar stair,
And the offering without name:
And alas for the glorious hair,
That is turned to a crown of shame!
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A handful of sweets was spread,
For the prey of priceless cost;
And, to wile her wavering tread,
Every lure was lightly tost
To the chamber of the dead:
Till the fatal bridge was crost:
And alas for the darling head,
When the jewel of jewels is lost!
For the prey of priceless cost;
And, to wile her wavering tread,
Every lure was lightly tost
To the chamber of the dead:
Till the fatal bridge was crost:
And alas for the darling head,
When the jewel of jewels is lost!
She was only a country child,
As merry and blithe as a boy,
From the lesson conquered, wild
For the pleasure that cannot cloy;
Trapt, and betrayed, and defiled;
Dashed down from the stars of joy:
And alas for the woman-child,
Who is dropt like a broken toy!
As merry and blithe as a boy,
From the lesson conquered, wild
For the pleasure that cannot cloy;
Trapt, and betrayed, and defiled;
Dashed down from the stars of joy:
And alas for the woman-child,
Who is dropt like a broken toy!
Shall the cry go up from earth,
That pitiful baby wail,
In the midst of the sinful mirth,
From the hearts that ache and ail,
Unavenged, in the awful dearth
That is under the dead thing's veil?
And alas for the sisters' worth,
When their brothers faint and fail!
That pitiful baby wail,
In the midst of the sinful mirth,
From the hearts that ache and ail,
Unavenged, in the awful dearth
That is under the dead thing's veil?
And alas for the sisters' worth,
When their brothers faint and fail!
She was only the heir of Heaven,
Swept on the ocean swell,
Strong with the strength of seven,
In her holy maiden spell,
Till she tasted the bitter leaven,
And sank, as the angels fell:
And alas for the hope of Heaven,
Which is made the guest of Hell!
Swept on the ocean swell,
Strong with the strength of seven,
In her holy maiden spell,
Till she tasted the bitter leaven,
And sank, as the angels fell:
And alas for the hope of Heaven,
Which is made the guest of Hell!
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Above the ten thousand shocks,
And the shadows as they roll,
From the cradle that it rocks,
And the grave it digs, as toll,
Goes the knell that fondly knocks
At the door of God's high goal:
And alas for the lie that mocks
At the life of the virgin soul!
And the shadows as they roll,
From the cradle that it rocks,
And the grave it digs, as toll,
Goes the knell that fondly knocks
At the door of God's high goal:
And alas for the lie that mocks
At the life of the virgin soul!
She was only a baby mouth,
Like a lily, blighted, pale,
In the horror of great drouth,
From the scornful scourging gale;
Like a dream of the sunny South,
In a dim forgotten dale:
And alas for the pleading mouth,
If it cannot tell its tale.
Like a lily, blighted, pale,
In the horror of great drouth,
From the scornful scourging gale;
Like a dream of the sunny South,
In a dim forgotten dale:
And alas for the pleading mouth,
If it cannot tell its tale.
Shall our daughters pine with pain,
Now the chivalry is gone?
Shall our darlings weep in vain,
And the cursèd deeds be done?
Shall the leper's guilty stain,
Be a jest that babblers con?
And alas for the honour slain,
While the murderer still lives on!
Now the chivalry is gone?
Shall our darlings weep in vain,
And the cursèd deeds be done?
Shall the leper's guilty stain,
Be a jest that babblers con?
And alas for the honour slain,
While the murderer still lives on!
F. Harald Williams.
| The cry of the woman-child | |