II
What crime was hers, that she lies hushed,
Dead with the price, while you and I,
With lifted head, walk sinless by?
Pause then,—but spare
That easy tear; the tale I'll bare.
Mid stones that pushed
Her eager life back, grudged her room
For root without one bloom,
There strangely blushed
Some little dreams,—not gloriously fine
As yours and mine,
But vague, and veiled, and few;
She hardly knew their names, but felt the stir
That filled her heart with whispers as they grew,
And knew that life lay in them, life for her.
When Hunger came she turned her breast
And let him feed. Cold followed, gripped
Her veins and sipped
The thin blood thinner; both she pressed
As close as lovers, lest
A darker fiend might creep within
Her empty arms; lest she might buy,
With one swift hour of sin,
A poisoned ease from tooth of need,—
A little food, a little fire, and die;
And she had dreams to shelter, little dreams to feed.
Oh, unresisting dumb!
In wide earth's harvest-gold
She asked no share,
If in the dust a crumb
Might be for her;
If she might round her aching body fold
One hour's undriven sleep,—
But one hour more,
Safe from the Want that pried
Her thin and shaken door,—
That hour the shivering dawn denied
With scream that cut life through,
And made her wretched pillow seem a rose
Her clinging cheek would keep
In soft, ungoaded death! And ah, suppose
A few more pence the day
Were richly hers, to make youth gay
With ribbon or a flower ere it flew!
(So soon toil's wrinkles come!)
Then would she make her dreams a fairer home;
Then would her heart be stronger where they grew;
Then would she walk more bravely knowing them;
Then would her eyes be brighter showing them.
Yet did they whisper, yet they stirred
Uptremblingly, till half their breath
Was music, half was song;
Told of free hours and a wild heath
Where wind and sun ran dappling; of a bird
Bough-throned, whose trill
Turned all the forest leaves to wings,—
His singing young;
Of a moon-goldened hill
Where blossoms danced; of sweeter, holier things;
A sea-beach grey,
Where waves were drownèd twilight, and the day
Hung in a pause that softly, suddenwise,
Became a soul. She too would have a soul,
And hours with God and friends; no more give all,
Now there were dreams, to the machine.
Then rose with young, star-driven eyes
To face the lords of gain,
And here she lies.
Lift up the cotton, thinned with wear,
That hides the poor, starved shoulder; bare
The bruise shows, like a printed paw.
Haste, draw the dumb, frayed sheet again,
And think you cover so the stain
Upon our hearts; for—have the truth!—
'Twas we who put the club of law
Into bought hands to strike her battling youth.
She kept her virtue's gold,
Fought hunger, fiend, and cold
Unvanquished; when the might of Hell
Rose in law's name and ours, she broken fell.
O friend, when next you smooth the golden head
Like nestled morning 'gainst your knee,
Look farther,—see
Fair girlhood dead.
These lips, unvisited by love, were sweet
As are thy fondling's; this want-hollowed cheek
A little ease had made
Playground of dimples, joy's rose-seat;
And could these eyes ope they would speak
Of one who bought her dreams of Death and paid.
If blind thou shrinkest yet
To meet Truth bare,
Then as thou'st dealt with this pale maid
Life shall thine own besiege.
Injustice holds
No sanctuary folds;
To fence out care
We must the planet hedge;
Justice is God, and waits
Behind our blood-built tower-gates;
And as indifference
Was once our soul's pretence,
Who then shall heed us, who shall understand,
When our crushed hearts lie in the vengeant hand?
But is she dead? Faint on my ears
A far-off singing falls,
Sweet from time's sleep
Amid the stainless years
Yet unawake to men.
Nearer it calls,
Like music through a rain,
And o'er the distant ridges sweep
Soft garments and young feet. O maidens, ye
Are like a cloud in beauty,—nay, more swift!
If that the milky stream of stars could lift
Its clustered glory, hasten free,
And while we marvelled pass from east to west,
Then ye would mirrored be!
The hills seem lit with brides,
And she whose death-cold breast
Was shrouded here, is't she who guides
This fearless company
Sure of earth's welcome as a maiden Spring?
And in their eyes the dreams she fought for,
In their hands the flowers she sought for,
On their lips the songs that here she did not sing!
Not dead! While Destiny hath need
Of living dream and deed,
Ay, she shall deathless be!
While aught availeth, and God is,
For in her hope lay His!
O, ye who mar Love's face
Ere Love be born, leave not this place,
Pass not this white form by,
Till from assaulted skies ye hear the cry,
"She is not dead till ye have murdered Me!"
Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.
at Paul's Work, Edinburgh
Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Original spellings have been retained.