Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold By "F. Harald Williams"[i.e. F. W. O. Ward]. First Edition |
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SHE CAME. |
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 | Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold |  |
SHE CAME.
She came as gently as a dove,
She came in white attire
And maidenly desire,
And simply said to all, “I love.”
She spake to mighty men of old,
She spake in palaces of gold
Those words with their unearthly thrill,
And drew her garments closer still.
But no one listened to her voice,
And no one heeded her.
But gauds and gossamer,
Were still the idols of their choice.
Though down the corridors of time,
Her footsteps rang a better chime;
And here and there some gentle breast,
Throbbed back the music on her breast.
She vainly bent on camp and court
Her pure face virginal,
And trod the festival
Where crownèd vice made virtue sport.
She came in white attire
And maidenly desire,
And simply said to all, “I love.”
She spake to mighty men of old,
She spake in palaces of gold
Those words with their unearthly thrill,
And drew her garments closer still.
But no one listened to her voice,
And no one heeded her.
But gauds and gossamer,
Were still the idols of their choice.
Though down the corridors of time,
Her footsteps rang a better chime;
And here and there some gentle breast,
Throbbed back the music on her breast.
She vainly bent on camp and court
Her pure face virginal,
And trod the festival
Where crownèd vice made virtue sport.
She lay where homeless outcasts lie,
She lay in bitter need
With poverty for creed,
And simply said to all, “I die.”
She pleaded with the lost and poor,
She pleaded at the cottage door
The sentence of her solemn care,
And laid her lily bosom bare.
But no one harkened to her cry,
And no one counted her
A worthy sufferer,
Although she mourned exceedingly.
She showed her wounds, the sisters' dart
That pierced her tortured bleeding heart,
The white robes soiled with foreign stains,
The soft arms bruised by brothers' chains.
She vainly brought a balm for ill,
To sweeten labour's lot
And cleanse each ugly blot—
She vainly lay and suffered still.
She lay in bitter need
With poverty for creed,
And simply said to all, “I die.”
She pleaded with the lost and poor,
She pleaded at the cottage door
The sentence of her solemn care,
And laid her lily bosom bare.
But no one harkened to her cry,
And no one counted her
A worthy sufferer,
85
She showed her wounds, the sisters' dart
That pierced her tortured bleeding heart,
The white robes soiled with foreign stains,
The soft arms bruised by brothers' chains.
She vainly brought a balm for ill,
To sweeten labour's lot
And cleanse each ugly blot—
She vainly lay and suffered still.
| Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold | |