 | Women must weep |  |
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PREFACE.
Time that stronghold breaks as straw,
Levels monarch with the mime,
Limits flowers and winter rime,
Shows the fairness, shields the flaw—
Gathers fruits from frozen clime,
Honey out of lion's jaw,
Rings for each a passing chime,
Rounding meanest things with awe;
This, on breasts that devils draw
Hellward in their virgin prime,
Soft hath laid the sweeter law,
Love, that liveth not for time.
Levels monarch with the mime,
Limits flowers and winter rime,
Shows the fairness, shields the flaw—
Gathers fruits from frozen clime,
Honey out of lion's jaw,
Rings for each a passing chime,
Rounding meanest things with awe;
This, on breasts that devils draw
Hellward in their virgin prime,
Soft hath laid the sweeter law,
Love, that liveth not for time.
Verses, that were wrung by ire,
In the rush of righteous hate,
At the poison of the State,
Preying, within bed of mire,
On the fallen and their fate—
Words, that leap'd like flaming fire,
Time beginning holier date,
Now hath soften'd, though the dire
Memory of the souls for hire,
Still endures—if Mercy late,
Grudged by court and sacred spire,
Opens now the prisoner's gate.
In the rush of righteous hate,
At the poison of the State,
Preying, within bed of mire,
On the fallen and their fate—
Words, that leap'd like flaming fire,
Time beginning holier date,
Now hath soften'd, though the dire
Memory of the souls for hire,
Still endures—if Mercy late,
Grudged by court and sacred spire,
Opens now the prisoner's gate.
Something, something, hath been wrought
By the hands that history make,
When they still the starving ache,
When the cup is kindly brought,
Which the thirsty lip may slake;
But the battle must be fought
On, lest noble spirits break,
That have suffer'd sore for nought,
And redemption vainly sought,
Fetter'd to their fiery stake;
Till, in burst of beauteous thought,
England's better self awake.
By the hands that history make,
When they still the starving ache,
When the cup is kindly brought,
Which the thirsty lip may slake;
But the battle must be fought
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That have suffer'd sore for nought,
And redemption vainly sought,
Fetter'd to their fiery stake;
Till, in burst of beauteous thought,
England's better self awake.
But what laws efface the smart,
Deeper than the hunger's brand,
Or the bite of iron band,
Piercing like a venom'd dart?
Lifted, how shall woman stand,
Who is still denied a part
In the blessing of the land?
Freed, yet by what earthly art
Can she as a sister start,
With her feet on sinking sand,
If we open not our heart,
Give her not a brother's hand?
Deeper than the hunger's brand,
Or the bite of iron band,
Piercing like a venom'd dart?
Lifted, how shall woman stand,
Who is still denied a part
In the blessing of the land?
Freed, yet by what earthly art
Can she as a sister start,
With her feet on sinking sand,
If we open not our heart,
Give her not a brother's hand?
| Women must weep | |