Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold By "F. Harald Williams"[i.e. F. W. O. Ward]. First Edition |
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SERVUS SERVORUM. |
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 | Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold |  |
SERVUS SERVORUM.
Lord, not large is my petition,
Though it gathers in its plea
Like the fulness of the sea
All the poor of each condition;
This is what I humbly crave,
Just to be the servants' slave,
And to carry comfort human
To the pinched and pallid woman,
Grinding out her love and life,
And the sweetness of this mortal
For the darkness of death's portal,
In the factory's iron strife,
But to swell accursed store;
This I ask and nothing more.
Though it gathers in its plea
Like the fulness of the sea
All the poor of each condition;
This is what I humbly crave,
Just to be the servants' slave,
And to carry comfort human
To the pinched and pallid woman,
Grinding out her love and life,
And the sweetness of this mortal
For the darkness of death's portal,
In the factory's iron strife,
But to swell accursed store;
This I ask and nothing more.
Lord, I do not beg for money,
But the treasure of the toil
Which wipes out the sinful soil,
Nor for pleasure's acrid honey;
I would be the carpet spread
For the pauper's weary tread,
And his mean and muddy scraper,
Or the lonely widow's taper
Which might give some solace meet;
If with tears and bitter sorrow
That they cannot have a morrow,
Just to wash the beggars' feet,
Fallen outcast at the door;
This I ask and nothing more.
But the treasure of the toil
Which wipes out the sinful soil,
Nor for pleasure's acrid honey;
I would be the carpet spread
For the pauper's weary tread,
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Or the lonely widow's taper
Which might give some solace meet;
If with tears and bitter sorrow
That they cannot have a morrow,
Just to wash the beggars' feet,
Fallen outcast at the door;
This I ask and nothing more.
Lord, I fain would raise the drudges,
In the greedy mill and mine,
Where the sullen hours they pine,
Now to be themselves the judges;
I for spinners lost and lone
Would be just the stepping stone
From the shameful rule of shoddy,
With my crushed and bleeding body,
Till they reach the sunny ridge;
I would choose no higher station
Than the dust of the foundation,
For some future golden bridge
Which will bear the suffering o'er;
This I ask and nothing more.
In the greedy mill and mine,
Where the sullen hours they pine,
Now to be themselves the judges;
I for spinners lost and lone
Would be just the stepping stone
From the shameful rule of shoddy,
With my crushed and bleeding body,
Till they reach the sunny ridge;
I would choose no higher station
Than the dust of the foundation,
For some future golden bridge
Which will bear the suffering o'er;
This I ask and nothing more.
Lord, I do not pray for living
With its gauds of rank or wealth,
But to scatter hope and health
In the royalty of giving;
I am burning with a fire,
To redeem from prison mire
Wretches who could not be sadder,
And to be myself the ladder
Which uplifts them where they lie,
And their gaping wounds to cherish,
Though in serving them I perish,
If a hundred times I die
And damnation be my score;
This I ask and nothing more.
With its gauds of rank or wealth,
But to scatter hope and health
In the royalty of giving;
I am burning with a fire,
To redeem from prison mire
Wretches who could not be sadder,
And to be myself the ladder
Which uplifts them where they lie,
And their gaping wounds to cherish,
Though in serving them I perish,
If a hundred times I die
And damnation be my score;
This I ask and nothing more.
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