Women must weep :: :: University of Virginia Library

Pretty and young,
Tender and fair,
Like a bloom in the swelling blast she swung,
That caught at her tangled hair,
That toss'd it abroad in the air,
As in pain to her tatter'd shawl she clung,
Which around her breast like her grave-clothes hung,
While she stood on the fatal stair.
Pretty and young,
Tender and fair,
Through the soil and the mournèd sin that wrung
With her shoes that did not pair.

Drip! Drip!
On the cruel stone
Fell the crimson blood from the gaping lip
Of a wound unto the bone;
While the ghastly lamplight shone,
And the cold, it struck like an iron whip,
It clutch'd her throat in its freezing grip,
As she shiver'd late and lone.
Drip! Drip!
On the tell-tale stone
Dropp'd the blood, till it made her footstep slip,
As if it would fain atone.

Woman and child,
Foolish and frail—
And her eyes had a hunted glare and wild,
Like a man's when his hopings fail,

When he, shipwreck'd, sees no sail,
But the mocking clouds on the sky-line piled;
Yet her features still had a sweetness mild,
As if heaven had left its trail.
Woman and child,
Foolish and frail,
She had fled from the battle, bruised, defiled,
And she heard no angels hail.

Sob! Sob!
Tears rain'd down,
While her broken heart, in its last mad throb,
Turn'd away from the cursèd town,
To the cottage beside the down,
With the kettle singing on the hob,
And the honour that no man dared to rob,
Which was all her maiden's crown.
Sob! Sob!
Tears poured down,
As she thought again of the brutal mob,
And the unforgiving frown.

Sin for a day,
Shame for a year—
That was the devil's own price to pay,
With the creeping famine and fear,
With the falling trouble and tear,
And the shadow that never was rent by ray—
With the horror that haunted and dogg'd her way,
And the judgment drawing neàr.
Sin for a day,
Shame for a year,
With the sorrow that kill'd yet could not slay,
And that toll'd within her ear.

Blow! blow!
Bitter the blast,
As it snatch'd at her rags and seem'd to grow,
And to gather out of her past,
Until every evil at last

Was a part of its savage ebb and flow,
In her memory's awful midnight glow,
That the darkness made more vast.
Blow! blow!
Bleaker the blast,
As she drifted onward to the woe,
That its toils about her cast.

Beautiful still,
True to the end,
She was womanly, faithful, fond through ill,
To him who she hoped would tend—
To him who she thought would blend
With her love his own in one happier will,
Till the cup of their gladness drank its fill,
With the blessings time would send.
Beautiful still,
True to the end,
Though her breast was stabb'd with a mortal thrill,
That no healing now could mend.

Ding! dong!
Wedding bells
From the rushing river sent their song,
To the far-off daised dells
And the nodding cowslip bells,
Where she never dream'd of a thing like wrong,
When her simple faith was as free and strong
As the wind on her native fells.
Ding! dong!
Wedding bells,
By the ragged stream they were borne along,
Till they changed to dying knells.

Ashen of hue,
Helpless and worn,
From the first descent she still did rue,
With its grievous rankling thorn,
To the daily poisoned scorn
That denied the mercy she might sue,
For the weary soul that would be true—

To the wound his hand had torn.
Ashen of hue,
Helpless and worn,
Did she see beyond the rift of blue,
And the beam of a brighter morn?

Plash! plash!
Under her feet,
The waters went swirling in flicker and flash—
They went gurgling and groaning and fleet,
To the strife where the waters meet,
Like a slave that is writhing beneath the lash;
Till her mind was fired with a purpose rash,
And the thought of death was sweet,
Plash! plash!
Under her feet,
The waters whiten'd with spray and splash,
As if weaving her winding-sheet.

Only a leap
Into the dark,
And there was an end in the dreamless sleep—
And there was the beacon-spark
That guided her to the ark,
Now the wearied hands no more could reap,
And a maiden's blotted life was cheap,
And her frame already stark.
Only a leap
Into the dark—
A passing cry and a huddled heap—
And the waters left no mark.

Sigh! sigh!
On the mud and sand
Come the sluggish waves, as they bring it nigh
To the black and oozy land,
The thing with the awful brand—
As they wash their bitter burden high,
With its face upturn'd to the veilèd sky,

To his feet that idly stand;
Sigh! sigh!
On the mud and sand,
They give him her with the pleading eye,
And his picture in her hand.

Only a child,
Who had gone astray,
In the flowery path that upon her smil'd—
Who hath follow'd the laughing ray,
Which so tempted her to play,
Where untasted joys to the ruin wil'd,
Though her heart was as fresh and undefil'd,
As an opening summer-day;
Only a child,
Who had gone astray,
Who had lived and loved and been beguiled;
And the world went on its way.