 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
THE STORY OF THE STONES.
Ah, could they utter all they know,
Of that unceasing ebb and flow,
The awful tide-wave of the Town,
Which ever murmurs up and down,
And ever pining is and poor,
Nor finds a resting, save the door
Which opens once for prince and swain,
To shut and open not again;
And could they for a moment speak,
Just something of the sisters weak,
Who sadly wander to and fro,
And dream not whither they should go—
Those helpless children, loved and lost,
Upon the world's dark waters tost,
Who erred in passion or from pride,
And now stand on the other side
Hopeless, with hands that vainly reach
Across the never-closing breach,
Who blindly look and blankly yearn
For comfort, which they cannot earn;
Ah, could they utter all they know,
Of that dim troubled passing show,
In every stone would every stain
Just be, a weeping world of pain,
Of that unceasing ebb and flow,
The awful tide-wave of the Town,
Which ever murmurs up and down,
And ever pining is and poor,
Nor finds a resting, save the door
Which opens once for prince and swain,
To shut and open not again;
And could they for a moment speak,
Just something of the sisters weak,
Who sadly wander to and fro,
And dream not whither they should go—
Those helpless children, loved and lost,
Upon the world's dark waters tost,
Who erred in passion or from pride,
And now stand on the other side
Hopeless, with hands that vainly reach
Across the never-closing breach,
Who blindly look and blankly yearn
For comfort, which they cannot earn;
Ah, could they utter all they know,
Of that dim troubled passing show,
In every stone would every stain
Just be, a weeping world of pain,
362
Ah, could they utter all they hear,—
The black regret, and blacker fear
Of sighs; that wrung from breaking heart
Leave paler yet the lips they part;
The sobs of baby forms, that creep
Down, deeper down, the ghastly deep,
Wherein the fires of anguish burn,
And whence no footsteps may return;
The moan of many a bleeding breast,
Which in its famine is a feast
To the undying worm and ghouls
That torture the despairing souls;
And drag from secret haunted graves
The buried sins of writhing slaves;
The wail of woman, still a child,
Plucked by a wanton hand, defil'd,
And trodden in the mud, by power
That only heeded the bright flower,
And not the spirit that was slain,
But would and cannot bloom again;
Ah! could they utter all they hear,
The stories not for mortal ear,
Each flint would have a knelling tone,
And be a curst sepulchral stone.
The black regret, and blacker fear
Of sighs; that wrung from breaking heart
Leave paler yet the lips they part;
The sobs of baby forms, that creep
Down, deeper down, the ghastly deep,
Wherein the fires of anguish burn,
And whence no footsteps may return;
The moan of many a bleeding breast,
Which in its famine is a feast
To the undying worm and ghouls
That torture the despairing souls;
And drag from secret haunted graves
The buried sins of writhing slaves;
The wail of woman, still a child,
Plucked by a wanton hand, defil'd,
And trodden in the mud, by power
That only heeded the bright flower,
And not the spirit that was slain,
But would and cannot bloom again;
Ah! could they utter all they hear,
The stories not for mortal ear,
Each flint would have a knelling tone,
And be a curst sepulchral stone.
Ah, could they utter all they see,
The bitter pangs that only flee
For others to come on, and fill
The vacant spot with viler ill;
The serpent woes that with gaunt girth
Strangle the purest joys at birth,
From the sweet cradle, as they ope
Their heavenly eyes in tender hope,—
And twine their grim and greedy coil,
Round the frail arms of honest toil;
The hidden fretting wounds that gape
Beneath thin shawl and threadbare cape.
The outeasts meant for better things,
Who might have risen on angel wings,
Unto the hush of grander height,
And lived for ever in the light;
The sorrow that has not a name,
And leaves the scar of scorching flame
Where'er it falls, and sucks its food
From tears of blasted maidenhood;
Ah, could they utter all they see,
In bosoms bound that should be free,
Then every stone, for want or worse,
Would be a witness to the curse.
The bitter pangs that only flee
For others to come on, and fill
The vacant spot with viler ill;
The serpent woes that with gaunt girth
Strangle the purest joys at birth,
From the sweet cradle, as they ope
Their heavenly eyes in tender hope,—
And twine their grim and greedy coil,
Round the frail arms of honest toil;
The hidden fretting wounds that gape
Beneath thin shawl and threadbare cape.
The outeasts meant for better things,
Who might have risen on angel wings,
Unto the hush of grander height,
And lived for ever in the light;
The sorrow that has not a name,
And leaves the scar of scorching flame
Where'er it falls, and sucks its food
From tears of blasted maidenhood;
Ah, could they utter all they see,
In bosoms bound that should be free,
Then every stone, for want or worse,
Would be a witness to the curse.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |