Women must weep :: :: University of Virginia Library

It is merely a child at a railway station,
A child with her rosy cheeks,
And a hand that has had no education,
That her rumpled tresses sleeks—
A dear brown hand that is small and trembling
As it wanders about the hair,
While she stares at the crowd, in vain dissembling
Her alarm, with a hunted air;
A poor brown hand, with the marks of labour,
Which are all a toiler's gems,
And that seems in search of a rest or neighbour,
Who no ignorant child contemns;
A shy brown hand that goes fast, and fingers
Every button and frilling wave,
And that yet for a moment fondly lingers
On the Bible her mother gave;
Which safe on her bosom nestles, nestles,
In a handkerchief clean and white,

While she watches as one who wrestles, wrestles,
With the doubts that in darkness smite.

(Aside.)

Oh, the woman-child is fair of favour,
Who is yet unsoil'd by sin;
And the ripe red lips have pleasant savour,
For the wealthy who can win.
Lo the flower-girl sang, “O stay, my sister!”
And the constable growled, “Move on!”
But never a friend who would there assist her,
And the sheltering train had gone;
There was plenty of useful work for others,
Who had each their human bond,
And the babies laughed to find their mothers,
If the tears would oft respond;
There was many a happy time of meeting,
For the lovers sever'd wide,
With the distant bow and the colder greeting
That betray'd what speech would hide;
There were features soft, and features surly,
And the most divided ends,
In the glorious motley hurly-burly,
Which a railway platform blends;
And the travellers still went parting, parting,
With the farewell kiss and call,
And she felt the dewdrop starting, starting,
Though she dared not let it fall.

(Aside.)

Ah, for some there are daily feasts of laughter,
And for others just a sigh;
But the dust is one in the hereafter,
And the grave is ever nigh.
She was only a child, a rustic maiden,
With the crimson on her mouth,
With a plain deal box not overladen,
From her cottage in the south;

With a bunch of lavender in her pocket,
That would drive disease away,
And her father's hair in a silver locket,
Where the ribands went astray.
She was little used so far to travel,
Nor had left her home before;
And if she that web could not unravel,
Where was help she might implore?
It was pageant all so strange and staring,
Without sign of law or clue,
As if every eye at her were staring,
And she could not mercy sue;
And her troubled heart seem'd flying, flying,
When she heard no welcoming tone,
And her colour wither'd, dying, dying,
As she waited thus alone.

(Aside.)

For the roses have their time to blossom,
And their time the winter shades,
But the lily of a maid's pure bosom
Is the bloom that never fades.
Ho! the cabmen shook their whips and shouted,
And the porters push'd her back,
Till a tear fell on the lips that pouted,
With another on its track;
And it wider grew, that tender dimple,
On the innocent, pleading face,
As she wonder'd, in her sadness simple,
Should she find the promised place?
Should she ever reach the happy haven,
In some cosy quiet street,
With its plot of grass well-kept and shaven,
And afar from tramp of feet?
She had dropp'd the letter of direction;
While the crowd around her prest,
On a pretty child without protection,
Save the Bible at her breast.
And she heard the news-boys telling, telling,
Of the last black murder wrought,

And the church-bells all were knelling, knelling,
In her agony of thought.

(Aside.)

It is woe to those whose breasts have steeling,
Though our beauties rise to fall;
But the dower of true and dainty feeling,
Is the grimmest curse of all.
She had lost her father, and the sorrow
Brought a new and nameless grief,
And her mother was too proud to borrow
Or to beg for man's relief;
So the birdie had to spread her pinions,
And to leave the little nest,
For an unknown earth of dark dominions,
With a heart of wild unrest;
And to seek her fortune out she flutter'd,
On the awful world untried,
Though the unshaped prayer to Heaven she utter'd
Just a fitful help supplied.
She had got a place, in the giant city,
Which would furnish food and dress,
And the mistress wrote so full of pity
For the girl left fatherless;
They had told her to keep waiting, waiting,
Whatsoever else might hap,
While the hand of lust was baiting, baiting,
For its dupe a flowery trap.

(Aside.)

Ha! the serpent still has sunny masking,
And the truth is doubted still;
To its doom goes folly, without asking,
And the Judas kisses kill.
And then, through the mob about her bustling,
Came a lady of gentle look,
With a black silk dress that made a rustling
And a heavy cross-bound book;
And she said to the simple maiden, smiling,

“Have I kept you waiting, dear,
In these dreadful sounds and sights beguiling,
Though a Providence is near?”
With her golden chain she beam'd upon her,
And her accents sounded mild,
Like the print at home of the Madonna
Clasping the Holy Child;
And she kiss'd the pretty face that brighten'd,
While she took the awkward hand,
Till the vanish'd colour once more lighten'd,
As the day on a new-born land;
And she led her trusting blindly, blindly,
To the words that childhood charm;
But she laugh'd and talk'd so kindly, kindly,
Who could ever dream of harm?

(Aside.)

From the sword have flow'd red seas of slaughters,
And more dread is the famine grip;
But the bitterest scourge that slays our daughters,
Is the sugar'd lying lip.
But she thought some folks gave curious glances,
While the flower-girl sigh'd, “Take care!”
And a murmur from mere timid fancies
Bade her foolish heart beware;
Though the porter gave such prompt assistance
And her box in safety bore,
Who had scarce acknowledged her existence,
When she ask'd his help before;
Then the driver bow'd them to his carriage,
And politely shut them in—
Just as if she were going to her marriage,
And not service to begin;
She was so confused with wondering pleasure,
Like a dazzled country maid,
That she did not miss the darling treasure
She had in her bosom laid;
And the waves of joy came gushing, gushing,
As they hurried gaily on,

With new roses yet more blushing, blushing,
But her Bible now was gone.

(Aside.)

Though the sign-post unto heaven is pointing,
And the living letter spread,
Yet the brow with the burial anointing,
Cannot see except the dead.
O the maddening music of the Babel,
That like billows on her broke,
From the shining shop with gilded gable,
To the wheel with splashing spoke;
There were cries from every sort of vendor,
With the burr of foreign lips,
And the beggar-baby's wailing tender,
Or the crack of furious whips;
There were rumbling sounds, and rugged jolting
From the heavy loaded vans,
And great doors seemed barring or unbolting,
With the clash of milking-cans;
There were mutter'd oaths and children's prattle,
Through the fiddle's squeaking strings,
And uncouth machines that made a rattle,
With the dragging clank of chains;
There was voice of sparrows cheeping, cheeping,
And of thousand at their play,
And ten thousands more were weeping, weeping,
For the never-dawning day.

(Aside.)

And the tide goes out, and the tide comes flowing,
With the tunes it has utter'd long;
But the waves, and the winds so earthly blowing,
Do not drown the angels' song.
O the spectacle there that met her vision,
And the rainbow-painted show,
The funeral car that in derision
Threw a shade across the glow;
There were radiant brows and eyes of glory,
As if homes of heavenly love,

And the furtive looks that told their story
With a light not from above;
There were noble forms and costly ermine
Upon coroneted cars,
And the things that seem'd mere mates of vermin
In their wretched want and scars;
There were jewels flashing, and not harder
Than the breast to pity foe,
With starvation by the well-stocked larder,
And the wealth eclipsing woe;
There were scenes of pleasure calling, calling,
To the prodigals of pride,
With the wounded workers falling, falling,
And they jostled side by side.

(Aside.)

Oh, life is a wondrous mocking medley,
Like a fairy picture-book,
And the sights that damn, and are most deadly,
Have the fondest, fairest look.
And the country girl was glad and serious,
In her mingled hopes and fears:
It was all so mighty and mysterious,
That the laughter follow'd tears;
Now she overflow'd with childish chatter,
And now sat demurely still,
While the restless hand kept up a patter
On the open window-sill;
And they flew by lordly piles and places
That were like enchanted ground;
They had tempting peeps of garden graces,
Which the jealous walls shut round;
Adown every hill they hurried faster,
And again up hill went slow,
By the burnt black bricks that show'd disaster,
And black hearts that made no show;
And the stream of life roll'd, tossing, tossing,
In its passion and its play,
Till she seem'd a traveller crossing, crossing,
The great ocean far away.

(Aside.)

So we forward haste with loves and quarrels,
With the money in our bags;
It is death to the hand that grasps the laurels,
It is death to the foot that lags.
And the clocks rang out from tower and steeple,
As they still drove gaily on;
She had pass'd through London and its people,
When she found her Bible gone;
And she could not keep a sob from rising,
With a prayer that gave her strength,
But before she knew came a fresh surprising,
And the carriage stopp'd at length;
Then the prim policeman was so willing,
And descended from his height,
But seem'd not too proud to take a shilling,
While he help'd her to alight;
And the lady was as kind and gracious,
As a mother even could be,
And the house uprose before her spacious,
Like a palace fair to see;
But the miser went on getting, getting,
And the victim woo'd her fate,
And the July sun was setting, setting,
As she entered the iron gate.

(Aside.)

There are captives, and they feel no thralling,
Though the net is plainly spread,
And the worms in their horrid glee are crawling,
To the body not yet dead.
Then the inner door swung open lightly,
As she clamber'd the steps of stone,
And a fair young face beam'd on her brightly,
While the dying sunset shone;
And the birds outside were having vespers,
In their carols clear and strong,
And the winds, with their slow delicious whispers
Were chanting the evensong;

And she saw the passion-flower, that mounted
To the window, and look'd in,
And she tripp'd through passages uncounted,
Far away from vulgar din;
Through the fruit and foliage, bud and blossom,
Across crimson carpet floor,
With a throb of joy in her gentle bosom,
To a dim and curtain'd door;
And inside she hasten'd, willing, willing,
Till she heard the fastening lock,
And the echoes went through her thrilling, thrilling,
With a sudden ghastly shock.

(Aside.)

Though the churches ope for pious mortals,
They for tenants ever crave:—
But the fullest rooms have their sealèd portals
In the dungeon and the grave.
There was ruby wine in rich decanter,
Under hangings of gold and lace,
There were tables set as by some enchanter,
And with every gift and grace;
And she was not alone, for a mocking stranger
Then approach'd her soft with smiles,
As she saw too late the mortal danger,
Too late the accursèd wiles;
For the neck was in the victim's halter
That is held by sumptuous vice,
And the lamb lay helpless at the altar
For the sombre sacrifice;
Though a fount was somewhere sweetly singing,
And the last sad sunbeam fell,
And the holy chimes to heaven kept ringing,
As a spirit sank to hell;
For the fatal chain was folded, folded,
That regards not tender fears,
And a maiden's flesh is moulded, moulded,
Not with water, but with tears.

(Aside.)

Are they fools who work, while wise men borrow
The rich harvest of their pains?
Do the righteous, who are fair and sorrow,
Unto sinners give their gains?
There were screams, but the constable on duty,
Who was dearly bought and bound,
Took his oath it was not outraged beauty,
And he never heard a sound;
For he did not notice children's raving,
If more serious tasks he had;
And when females took to such behaving,
They were always drunk or mad.
Though a Member, who had outlived pleasure,
To play mountain and the mouse,
Framed a really comprehensive measure
And proposed it to the House;
But Parliament could not make a quorum,
To decide our darlings' doom,
Till the measure died—perhaps of decorum—
And they built a pretty tomb;
So the mighty man rose, winning, winning,
And in vain the weakling cried,
While the wealthy stay'd not sinning, sinning,
And the little ewe lamb died.

(Aside.)

And the fine policeman takes his money,
For he labours long and hard;
And the trap is baited still with honey—
But our guardians who shall guard?