 | Women must weep |  |
HELL.
Sister, is it hard that foes
Make thy bosom bleed and smart,
Stab with hatred's venom dart,
Beat thee down in miry woes,
Soiling not their dainty toes,
When in dark distress thou art?
Scorn is worse than Arctic floes,
Nor has earthquake direr throes
Than the murmur of the heart;
But the saddest poorest part,
Which for ever tempting with thee goes,
Is thy woman's heart.
Make thy bosom bleed and smart,
Stab with hatred's venom dart,
Beat thee down in miry woes,
Soiling not their dainty toes,
When in dark distress thou art?
Scorn is worse than Arctic floes,
Nor has earthquake direr throes
Than the murmur of the heart;
But the saddest poorest part,
Which for ever tempting with thee goes,
Is thy woman's heart.
Bad it is, from weary shade
To the night of wearier dawn,
Hiding as a hunted fawn,
Which would cheat the butcher's blade;
Bad it is, when brothers lade
Burdens they should have withdrawn;
Bad, when rings the sexton's spade,
The last rays of promise fade,
As the light on mountain lawn—
When there nothing is to pawn;
Though it was the thought impure, that bade
Earth in pity yawn.
To the night of wearier dawn,
Hiding as a hunted fawn,
Which would cheat the butcher's blade;
Bad it is, when brothers lade
Burdens they should have withdrawn;
Bad, when rings the sexton's spade,
The last rays of promise fade,
As the light on mountain lawn—
When there nothing is to pawn;
Though it was the thought impure, that bade
Earth in pity yawn.
109
Bad it is, when enter in
Angels, that are not of day,
Forms with faces grim and gray,
Each a ghost of unlaid sin,
Pointing each with finger thin,
To the slough of soiling clay:
Bad is custom's iron gin;
Coarse revilers' mocking din,
And the pulpit's solemn bray,
Sound that would but cannot slay;
Worse it is, by triumph cheap, to win,
Thy frail human way.
Angels, that are not of day,
Forms with faces grim and gray,
Each a ghost of unlaid sin,
Pointing each with finger thin,
To the slough of soiling clay:
Bad is custom's iron gin;
Coarse revilers' mocking din,
And the pulpit's solemn bray,
Sound that would but cannot slay;
Worse it is, by triumph cheap, to win,
Thy frail human way.
Worst it is, to vainly fight
Where yet stouter spirits fell,
Not to hear the funeral bell,
Not to see the damnèd sight,
Darkness to mistake for light,
And for freedom prison-cell;
Still to think the evil right,
Not to dream have taken flight
Blessings that with thee would dwell;
Still to drink the poisoned well,
Nor suspect the black and deadly blight—
This is very hell.
Where yet stouter spirits fell,
Not to hear the funeral bell,
Not to see the damnèd sight,
Darkness to mistake for light,
And for freedom prison-cell;
Still to think the evil right,
Not to dream have taken flight
Blessings that with thee would dwell;
Still to drink the poisoned well,
Nor suspect the black and deadly blight—
This is very hell.
| Women must weep | |