 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
MY CREED.—MY HEART AND I.
I have a creed, a simple creed,
Which guided me in youth,
And on the mire of earthly greed
Flashed its heroic truth;—
That every man should be the knight
Of every woman born,
To beauty and the love her right,
Or shame and cruel scorn;
Whatever be her form or face,
To make her sorrows mine,
And mark (though hidden in disgrace)
A dignity Divine.
Which guided me in youth,
And on the mire of earthly greed
Flashed its heroic truth;—
That every man should be the knight
Of every woman born,
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Or shame and cruel scorn;
Whatever be her form or face,
To make her sorrows mine,
And mark (though hidden in disgrace)
A dignity Divine.
I have a creed, a simple creed,
Whereby I learned to live,
And to this heart by suffering freed
A saintly service give;—
That woman, if she be a slave
To whom dishonour clings,
Hath in the gutter worse than grave,
A crown of better things;
And claims of me the kindly tear,
The glory of defence,
The ministry of holy fear,
The robe of reverence.
Whereby I learned to live,
And to this heart by suffering freed
A saintly service give;—
That woman, if she be a slave
To whom dishonour clings,
Hath in the gutter worse than grave,
A crown of better things;
And claims of me the kindly tear,
The glory of defence,
The ministry of holy fear,
The robe of reverence.
I have a creed, a simple creed,
A tender one and true,—
That every woman's bitter need
Should be her brother's due;
That she, of finer texture wrought.
And swayed to sweeter ends,
Should be girt round by kindly thought,
And stumbling stones find friends;
And, if she fret in prison bands,
Feel them the conqueror's wreath,
While leap a hundred helping hands
Like sword-blades from the sheath.
A tender one and true,—
That every woman's bitter need
Should be her brother's due;
That she, of finer texture wrought.
And swayed to sweeter ends,
Should be girt round by kindly thought,
And stumbling stones find friends;
And, if she fret in prison bands,
Feel them the conqueror's wreath,
While leap a hundred helping hands
Like sword-blades from the sheath.
I have a creed, a simple creed,
For which I fearless fight,
Which sheds a halo on each deed,
Done for a sister's right;—
The very harlot fallen and low,
Whom ruin cannot kill,
Hath yet not lost her heavenly glow,
And is an angel still;
And may once more, by pious love
Be cleanséd of her stain,
And raiséd to the realms above,
To rank with stars again.
For which I fearless fight,
Which sheds a halo on each deed,
Done for a sister's right;—
The very harlot fallen and low,
Whom ruin cannot kill,
Hath yet not lost her heavenly glow,
And is an angel still;
And may once more, by pious love
Be cleanséd of her stain,
And raiséd to the realms above,
To rank with stars again.
I have a creed, a simple creed,
By which I ever trod,
And living it is all the meed
I covet of my God;—
That woman is a precious gift,
If but in homespun clad,
To teach us gentler ways, and lift
Beyond this turmoil mad;
And we should stand—and nothing spare—
Between her and the strife.
To cherish her with awful care,
As one would cherish life.
By which I ever trod,
And living it is all the meed
I covet of my God;—
That woman is a precious gift,
If but in homespun clad,
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Beyond this turmoil mad;
And we should stand—and nothing spare—
Between her and the strife.
To cherish her with awful care,
As one would cherish life.
I have a creed, a simple creed,
Inspiring all my aims,
To which my inmost heart gives heed,
When deaf to other claims;—
That woman was not made the fool
Of man, however high,
To be mere passion's fleeting tool,
Then hopeless left to sigh;
And her sweet purity was meant
To triumph over fate—
While generations on it leant—
A bulwark of the State.
Inspiring all my aims,
To which my inmost heart gives heed,
When deaf to other claims;—
That woman was not made the fool
Of man, however high,
To be mere passion's fleeting tool,
Then hopeless left to sigh;
And her sweet purity was meant
To triumph over fate—
While generations on it leant—
A bulwark of the State.
I have a creed, a simple creed—
Deny it, if you dare—
The oak should shield the bruised reed,
And stay in stormy care;
That every man who is a man
Should be the spoiler's foe,
And link as part of every plan
The aid of woman's woe;
And, in her midnight hour of stress,
Should never leave her lone,
But with the lighting of redress
Rear up her radiant throne.
Deny it, if you dare—
The oak should shield the bruised reed,
And stay in stormy care;
That every man who is a man
Should be the spoiler's foe,
And link as part of every plan
The aid of woman's woe;
And, in her midnight hour of stress,
Should never leave her lone,
But with the lighting of redress
Rear up her radiant throne.
I have a creed, a simple creed,
Which all my work invests
With godlike splendour, and a speed
Which sordid acts arrests;—
That woman was not shaped to drudge,
And freedom idly crave,
The prey of every passing grudge,
The toy of every knave;
But, humbly served and fondly named,
Should sit at man's own side,
Plucked from the shadow, unashamed,
His comrade and his pride.
Which all my work invests
With godlike splendour, and a speed
Which sordid acts arrests;—
That woman was not shaped to drudge,
And freedom idly crave,
The prey of every passing grudge,
The toy of every knave;
But, humbly served and fondly named,
Should sit at man's own side,
Plucked from the shadow, unashamed,
His comrade and his pride.
I have a creed, a simple creed,
A manly one and good,
Which hath transformed the wayside weed,
And battle shocks withstood;—
That woman is, for clown or king,
The wellspring of all dearth,
The fairest, noblest, sweetest thing,
God ever formed on earth;
And it is Christlike toil, to win
From evil's hateful hold,
The leper with her loathsome sin,
Who sells herself for gold.
A manly one and good,
Which hath transformed the wayside weed,
And battle shocks withstood;—
That woman is, for clown or king,
The wellspring of all dearth,
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God ever formed on earth;
And it is Christlike toil, to win
From evil's hateful hold,
The leper with her loathsome sin,
Who sells herself for gold.
I have a creed, a simple creed,
With many a sacred tie,
For which this heart hath chosen to bleed
And gladly even would die;—
That woman, veiled with glorious tears,
Is beautiful in all,
The unknown goddess of the years,
From whom the veil must fall;
And every man her fame should screen
From perjured lust or line,
Till every woman is a Queen,
Crowned by a right divine.
With many a sacred tie,
For which this heart hath chosen to bleed
And gladly even would die;—
That woman, veiled with glorious tears,
Is beautiful in all,
The unknown goddess of the years,
From whom the veil must fall;
And every man her fame should screen
From perjured lust or line,
Till every woman is a Queen,
Crowned by a right divine.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |