I tell you, hush! no word of sneering scorn—
True, fallen; but God knows how deep her
sorrow.
Poor girl! too many like her only born
To love one day—to sin—and
die the morrow.
What know you of her struggles or her grief?
Or what wild storms of want and woe and
pain
Tore down her soul from honor? As a leaf
From autumn branches, or a drop of rain
That hung in frailest splendor from a bough—
Bright, glistening in the sunlight of
God’s day—
So had she clung to virtue once. But now—
See Heaven’s clear pearl polluted
with earth’s clay!
The sin is yours—with your accursed gold—
Man’s wealth is master—woman’s
soul the slave!
Some purest water still the mire may hold.
Is there no hope for her—no
power to save?
Yea, once again to draw up from the clay
The fallen raindrop, till it shine above,
Or save a fallen soul, needs but one ray
Of Heaven’s sunshine, or of human
love.
W.C.K. WILDE.
("L’aurore s’allume.")
[XX. a, December, 1834.]
Morning glances hither,
Now the shade is past;
Dream and fog fly thither
Where Night goes at last;
Open eyes and roses
As the darkness closes;
And the sound that grows is
Nature walking fast.
Murmuring all and singing,
Hark! the news is stirred,
Roof and creepers clinging,
Smoke and nest of bird;
Winds to oak-trees bear it,
Streams and fountains hear it,
Every breath and spirit
As a voice is heard.
All takes up its story,
Child resumes his play,
Hearth its ruddy glory,
Lute its lifted lay.
Wild or out of senses,
Through the world immense is
Sound as each commences
Schemes of yesterday.
W.M. HARDINGE.
("S’il est un charmant gazon.")
[XXII, Feb. 18, 1834.]
If there be a velvet sward
By dewdrops pearly drest,
Where through all seasons fairies guard
Flowers by bees carest,
Where one may gather, day and night,
Roses, honeysuckle, lily white,
I fain would make of it a site
For thy foot to rest.
If there be a loving heart
Where Honor rules the breast,
Loyal and true in every part,
That changes ne’er molest,
Eager to run its noble race,
Intent to do some work of grace,
I fain would make of it a place
For thy brow to rest.
And if there be of love a dream
Rose-scented as the west,
Which shows, each time it comes, a gleam,—
A something sweet and blest,—
A dream of which heaven is the pole,
A dream that mingles soul and soul,
I fain of it would make the goal
Where thy mind should rest.
TORU DUTT.
