 | Women must weep |  |
THE OTHER SIDE.
Wretched and pale,
Stricken and poor,
With the unknown want and the unheard tale,
That are drown'd for awhile in the drugging ale,
Passing our door,
That just gives her a glimpse of the marble floor;
Spotted, a bale
Spurnèd by boor,
She is ever upon the mart for sale,
Yet as lonely as sheep lost in the moor;
While the priest, in pride,
Goes hurrying past on the other side.
Stricken and poor,
With the unknown want and the unheard tale,
That are drown'd for awhile in the drugging ale,
Passing our door,
That just gives her a glimpse of the marble floor;
Spotted, a bale
Spurnèd by boor,
She is ever upon the mart for sale,
Yet as lonely as sheep lost in the moor;
135
Goes hurrying past on the other side.
Ragged and thin,
Crooked and foul
With the frequent falls in the slough of sin,
And the damnèd game she can never win—
Passions that scowl,
As the lecherous monk from his dusky cowl;
Thirsting for gin,
Helpless as owl
That has flapp'd by mistake into daylight's din,
She is one with the homeless dogs that prowl;
Though seducers ride
In their gilded coach, on the other side.
Crooked and foul
With the frequent falls in the slough of sin,
And the damnèd game she can never win—
Passions that scowl,
As the lecherous monk from his dusky cowl;
Thirsting for gin,
Helpless as owl
That has flapp'd by mistake into daylight's din,
She is one with the homeless dogs that prowl;
Though seducers ride
In their gilded coach, on the other side.
Trembling and mock'd,
Struggling for bread,
By the palace gate in its plenty lock'd,
And the landlord's hall, with her starving stock'd,
Tables all spread
With the blood-wrought spoils of the worse than dead;
Still is she block'd,
Weary of tread,
From the crumbs to which even the birds have flock'd,
With no rest but stones for the aching head;
And the ladies glide,
With their delicate steps, on the other side.
Struggling for bread,
By the palace gate in its plenty lock'd,
And the landlord's hall, with her starving stock'd,
Tables all spread
With the blood-wrought spoils of the worse than dead;
Still is she block'd,
Weary of tread,
From the crumbs to which even the birds have flock'd,
With no rest but stones for the aching head;
And the ladies glide,
With their delicate steps, on the other side.
Fragile and spent,
Friendless and shorn
Of the shelter for others somewhere bent,
And compassion that is a moment lent
Creatures of scorn;
She has lost the flower, but keeps the thorn;
Sobbing and rent,
Loveless and lorn,
She is drifting, as all before her went,
Into utter night, without a morn;
While the merchants slide,
With their clinking gold, on the other side.
Friendless and shorn
Of the shelter for others somewhere bent,
And compassion that is a moment lent
Creatures of scorn;
She has lost the flower, but keeps the thorn;
Sobbing and rent,
Loveless and lorn,
She is drifting, as all before her went,
Into utter night, without a morn;
While the merchants slide,
With their clinking gold, on the other side.
136
Victim of lust,
Vessel of clay,
She had only a foolish heart of trust,
And a spirit that sported as it must;
Pretty and gay,
For a minute or two of the rich man's play;
Dying in dust,
Doom'd without stay,
She will fight now with brutes for the filthy crust,
Which the surfeited beggar has cast away;
And betrayers that hide,
They will stand at last—on the other side.
Vessel of clay,
She had only a foolish heart of trust,
And a spirit that sported as it must;
Pretty and gay,
For a minute or two of the rich man's play;
Dying in dust,
Doom'd without stay,
She will fight now with brutes for the filthy crust,
Which the surfeited beggar has cast away;
And betrayers that hide,
They will stand at last—on the other side.
| Women must weep | |