[4] All this, above the shoulder, I could see,Of an old preacher who had come with me—A man who, 'mongst those garrets, earns, they say,A house and lot in heaven every day.
[4] All this, above the shoulder, I could see,Of an old preacher who had come with me—A man who, 'mongst those garrets, earns, they say,A house and lot in heaven every day.
Yes, it's straight and true, good Preacher, every word that you have said;Do not think these tears unmanly—they're the first ones I have shed!But they kind o' beat and pounded 'gainst my aching heart and brain,And they would not be let go of, and they gave me extra pain.I am just a laboring man, sir—work for food and rags and sleep,And I hardly know the meaning of the life I slave to keep;But I know when times are cheery, or my heart is made of lead;I know sorrow when I see it, and—I know my girl is dead!No, she isn't much to look at—just a plainish bit of clay,Of the sort of perished children that die 'round here every day;And howshecould break a heart up you'd be slow to understand,But she heldmine, Mr. Preacher, in that little withered hand!There are lots of prettier children, with a face and form more fine—Let their parents love and pet them—butthislittle one wasmine!There was no one else to cling to when we two were torn apart,And it's death—this amputation of the strong arms of the heart!I am just an ignorant man, sir, of the kind that digs and delves,But I've learned that human beings cannot stay in by themselves;They will reach out after something, be it good or be it bad,And my heart on hers had settled, and—the girl was all I had!
Yes, it's straight and true, good Preacher, every word that you have said;Do not think these tears unmanly—they're the first ones I have shed!But they kind o' beat and pounded 'gainst my aching heart and brain,And they would not be let go of, and they gave me extra pain.
I am just a laboring man, sir—work for food and rags and sleep,And I hardly know the meaning of the life I slave to keep;But I know when times are cheery, or my heart is made of lead;I know sorrow when I see it, and—I know my girl is dead!
No, she isn't much to look at—just a plainish bit of clay,Of the sort of perished children that die 'round here every day;And howshecould break a heart up you'd be slow to understand,But she heldmine, Mr. Preacher, in that little withered hand!
There are lots of prettier children, with a face and form more fine—Let their parents love and pet them—butthislittle one wasmine!There was no one else to cling to when we two were torn apart,And it's death—this amputation of the strong arms of the heart!
I am just an ignorant man, sir, of the kind that digs and delves,But I've learned that human beings cannot stay in by themselves;They will reach out after something, be it good or be it bad,And my heart on hers had settled, and—the girl was all I had!
"Choked and strangled by the foul breath of the chimneys over there.""CHOKED AND STRANGLED BY THE FOUL BREATH OF THE CHIMNEYS OVER THERE."
"CHOKED AND STRANGLED BY THE FOUL BREATH OF THE CHIMNEYS OVER THERE."
Yes, it's solid, Mr. Preacher, every wordthat you have said—God loves children while they're living,and adopts them when they're dead;But I cannot help contriving, do the very best I can,That it wasn't God's mercy took her, but the selfishness of man!Why, she lay here, faint and gasping, moaning for a bit of air,Choked and strangled by the foul breath of the chimneys over there;It climbed through every window, and crept under every door,And I tried to bar against it, and she only choked the more.
Yes, it's solid, Mr. Preacher, every wordthat you have said—God loves children while they're living,and adopts them when they're dead;
But I cannot help contriving, do the very best I can,That it wasn't God's mercy took her, but the selfishness of man!
Why, she lay here, faint and gasping, moaning for a bit of air,Choked and strangled by the foul breath of the chimneys over there;It climbed through every window, and crept under every door,And I tried to bar against it, and she only choked the more.
"OH, THE AIR IS PURE AND WHOLESOME WHERE SOME BABIES COO AND REST, AND THEY TRIM THEM OUT WITH RIBBONS, AND THEY FEED THEM WITH THE BEST.""OH, THE AIR IS PURE AND WHOLESOME WHERE SOME BABIES COO AND REST, AND THEY TRIM THEM OUT WITH RIBBONS, AND THEY FEED THEM WITH THE BEST."
"OH, THE AIR IS PURE AND WHOLESOME WHERE SOME BABIES COO AND REST, AND THEY TRIM THEM OUT WITH RIBBONS, AND THEY FEED THEM WITH THE BEST."
She would lie there, with the old look that poor children somehow get;She had learned to use her patience, and she did not cry or fret,But would lift her little face up, so piteous and so fair,And would whisper, "I am dying for a little breath of air!"If she'd gone off through the sunlight, 'twouldn't have seemed so hard to me,Or among the fresh cool breezes that come sweeping from the sea;But it's nothing less than murder when my darling's every breathChokes and strangles with the poison from that chimney swamp of death!Oh, it's not enough those people own the very ground we tread,And the shelter that we crouch in, and the tools that earn our bread;They must place their blotted mortgage on the air and on the sky,And shut out our little heaven, till our children pine and die!Oh, the air is pure and wholesome wheresomebabies coo and rest,And they trim them out with ribbons, and they feed them with the best;But the love they bear is mockery to the gracious God on high,If to give those children luxuries some one else's child must die!Oh, we wear the cheapest clothing, and our meals are scant and brief,And perhaps those fellows fancy there's a cheaper grade of grief;But the people all around here, losing children, friends, and mates,Can inform them thatAffliction hasn't any under-rates.I'm no grumbler at the rulers of "this free and happy land,"And I don't go 'round explaining things I do not understand;But I know there's something treacherous in the working of the law,When we get a dose of poison out of every breath we draw.I have talked too much, good Preacher, and I hope you won't be vexed,ButI'mgoing to make a sermon with that white face for a text;And I'll preach it, and I'll preach it, till I set the people wildO'er the heartless, reckless grasping of the men who killed my child!
She would lie there, with the old look that poor children somehow get;She had learned to use her patience, and she did not cry or fret,But would lift her little face up, so piteous and so fair,And would whisper, "I am dying for a little breath of air!"
If she'd gone off through the sunlight, 'twouldn't have seemed so hard to me,Or among the fresh cool breezes that come sweeping from the sea;But it's nothing less than murder when my darling's every breathChokes and strangles with the poison from that chimney swamp of death!
Oh, it's not enough those people own the very ground we tread,And the shelter that we crouch in, and the tools that earn our bread;They must place their blotted mortgage on the air and on the sky,And shut out our little heaven, till our children pine and die!
Oh, the air is pure and wholesome wheresomebabies coo and rest,And they trim them out with ribbons, and they feed them with the best;But the love they bear is mockery to the gracious God on high,If to give those children luxuries some one else's child must die!
Oh, we wear the cheapest clothing, and our meals are scant and brief,And perhaps those fellows fancy there's a cheaper grade of grief;But the people all around here, losing children, friends, and mates,Can inform them thatAffliction hasn't any under-rates.
I'm no grumbler at the rulers of "this free and happy land,"And I don't go 'round explaining things I do not understand;But I know there's something treacherous in the working of the law,When we get a dose of poison out of every breath we draw.
I have talked too much, good Preacher, and I hope you won't be vexed,ButI'mgoing to make a sermon with that white face for a text;And I'll preach it, and I'll preach it, till I set the people wildO'er the heartless, reckless grasping of the men who killed my child!
Still do I write—day-time and night—That which I see in my leisurely flight.What is this sign that is claiming the sight?—"Lodgings within here, at five cents per night!"Let me examine this cheap-entered nest,Pay my five cents, and go in with the rest;Let me jot down with sly pen, but sincere,What, in this garret, I see, smell, and hear.Great, gloomy den! where, on close-clustered shelves,Shelterless wretches can shelter themselves;Pestilence-drugged is the murderous air,Full of the breathings of want and despair!Horrible place!—where The Crushed RaceWinces 'neath Poverty's dolefullest blight—Bivouac of suffering, sin, and disgrace:What can you look for, at five cents per night?Hustle them in, jostle them in,Many of nation, and divers of kin;Sallow, and yellow, and tawny of skin—Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in!Handfuls of withered but suffering clay,Swept from the East by oppression away;Baffled adventurers, conquered and pressedBack from the gates of the glittering West;Men who with indolence, folly, and guileCarelessly slighted Prosperity's smile;Men who have struggled 'gainst Destiny's frown,Inch after inch, till she hunted them down.Scores in a tier—pile them up here—Many of peoples and divers of kin;Drift of the nations, from far and from near,Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in!Islands of green, mistily seen,Hover in visions these sleepers between;Beautiful memories, cozy and clean,Restfully precious, and sweetly serene.Womanly kisses have softened the browLying in drunken bewilderment now;Infantile faces have cuddled for restHere on this savage and rag-covered breast.Lucky the wretch who, in Poverty's ways,Bears not the burden of "happier days:"Many a midnight is gloomier yetBy the remembrance of stars that have set!Echoes of pain, drearily plain,Come of old melodies sweet and serene;Images sad to the heart and the brainRise out of memories cozy and green.
Still do I write—day-time and night—That which I see in my leisurely flight.What is this sign that is claiming the sight?—"Lodgings within here, at five cents per night!"
Let me examine this cheap-entered nest,Pay my five cents, and go in with the rest;Let me jot down with sly pen, but sincere,What, in this garret, I see, smell, and hear.Great, gloomy den! where, on close-clustered shelves,Shelterless wretches can shelter themselves;Pestilence-drugged is the murderous air,Full of the breathings of want and despair!Horrible place!—where The Crushed RaceWinces 'neath Poverty's dolefullest blight—Bivouac of suffering, sin, and disgrace:What can you look for, at five cents per night?
Hustle them in, jostle them in,Many of nation, and divers of kin;Sallow, and yellow, and tawny of skin—Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in!Handfuls of withered but suffering clay,Swept from the East by oppression away;Baffled adventurers, conquered and pressedBack from the gates of the glittering West;Men who with indolence, folly, and guileCarelessly slighted Prosperity's smile;Men who have struggled 'gainst Destiny's frown,Inch after inch, till she hunted them down.Scores in a tier—pile them up here—Many of peoples and divers of kin;Drift of the nations, from far and from near,Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in!
Islands of green, mistily seen,Hover in visions these sleepers between;Beautiful memories, cozy and clean,Restfully precious, and sweetly serene.Womanly kisses have softened the browLying in drunken bewilderment now;Infantile faces have cuddled for restHere on this savage and rag-covered breast.Lucky the wretch who, in Poverty's ways,Bears not the burden of "happier days:"Many a midnight is gloomier yetBy the remembrance of stars that have set!Echoes of pain, drearily plain,Come of old melodies sweet and serene;Images sad to the heart and the brainRise out of memories cozy and green.
Hustle them in, bustle them in,Fetid with squalor, and reeking with gin,Loaded with misery, folly, and sin—Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in!Few are the sorrows so hopelessly drearBut they have sad representatives here;Never a crime so complete and confessedBut has come hither for one night of rest.Seeds that the thorns of diseases may bearFloat on the putrid and smoke-laden air;Ghosts of destruction are haunting each breath—Soft-stepping agents, commissioned by Death.Crowd them in rows, comrades or foes,Deadened with liquor and deafened with din,Fugitives out of the frosts and the snows,Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in!
Hustle them in, bustle them in,Fetid with squalor, and reeking with gin,Loaded with misery, folly, and sin—Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in!Few are the sorrows so hopelessly drearBut they have sad representatives here;Never a crime so complete and confessedBut has come hither for one night of rest.Seeds that the thorns of diseases may bearFloat on the putrid and smoke-laden air;Ghosts of destruction are haunting each breath—Soft-stepping agents, commissioned by Death.Crowd them in rows, comrades or foes,Deadened with liquor and deafened with din,Fugitives out of the frosts and the snows,Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in!
"WEARY OLD MAN WITH THE SNOW-DRIFTED HAIR, NOT BY YOUR FAULT ARE YOU SUFFERING THERE.""WEARY OLD MAN WITH THE SNOW-DRIFTED HAIR, NOT BY YOUR FAULT ARE YOU SUFFERING THERE."
Guilt has not pressed unto its breastAll who are taking this dingy unrest:Innocence often is Misery's guest;Sorrow may strike at the brightest and best.You from whom hope, but not feeling, has fled,This is your refuge from pauperhood's bed;Timorous lad with a sensitive face,You have no record of crime and disgrace;Weary old man with the snow-drifted hair,Not by your fault are you suffering there,Never a child of your cherishing nigh—'Tis not for sin you so drearily die.Pain, in all lands, smites with two hands—Guilty and good may encounter the test;Misery's cord is of different strands;Sorrow may strike at the brightest and best.Sympathy's tear, warm and sincere,Cannot but glisten while lingering near.Edge not away, sir, in horror of fear,These are your brothers—this family here!What if Misfortune had madeyouforlornWith her stiletto as well as her scorn?What if some fiend had been makingyousureWith more temptation than flesh could endure?What if you deep in the slums had been born,Cradled in villany, christened in scorn?What if your toys had been tainted with crime?What if your baby hands dabbled in slime?Judge them with ruth. Maybe, in truth,It is not they, but their luck, that is here.Fancyyourgrowth from a sin-nurtured youth;Pity their weakness, and give them a tear.Help them get out; help them keep out!Labor to teach them what life is about;Give them a hand unencumbered with doubt;Feed them and clothe them, but pilot them out!Mortals depraved, whatsoe'er they have been,Soonest can mend from assistancewithin.Warm them and feed them—they're beasts, even then;Teach them and love them—they grow into men.You who 'mid luxuries costly and grandDecorate homes with munificent hand,Use, in some measure, your exquisite artsFor the improvement of minds and of hearts.Lilies must grow up from below,Where the strong rootlets are twining about;Goodness and honesty ever must flowFrom the heart-centres—to blossom without.
Guilt has not pressed unto its breastAll who are taking this dingy unrest:Innocence often is Misery's guest;Sorrow may strike at the brightest and best.You from whom hope, but not feeling, has fled,This is your refuge from pauperhood's bed;Timorous lad with a sensitive face,You have no record of crime and disgrace;Weary old man with the snow-drifted hair,Not by your fault are you suffering there,Never a child of your cherishing nigh—'Tis not for sin you so drearily die.Pain, in all lands, smites with two hands—Guilty and good may encounter the test;Misery's cord is of different strands;Sorrow may strike at the brightest and best.
Sympathy's tear, warm and sincere,Cannot but glisten while lingering near.Edge not away, sir, in horror of fear,These are your brothers—this family here!What if Misfortune had madeyouforlornWith her stiletto as well as her scorn?What if some fiend had been makingyousureWith more temptation than flesh could endure?What if you deep in the slums had been born,Cradled in villany, christened in scorn?What if your toys had been tainted with crime?What if your baby hands dabbled in slime?Judge them with ruth. Maybe, in truth,It is not they, but their luck, that is here.Fancyyourgrowth from a sin-nurtured youth;Pity their weakness, and give them a tear.
Help them get out; help them keep out!Labor to teach them what life is about;Give them a hand unencumbered with doubt;Feed them and clothe them, but pilot them out!Mortals depraved, whatsoe'er they have been,Soonest can mend from assistancewithin.Warm them and feed them—they're beasts, even then;Teach them and love them—they grow into men.You who 'mid luxuries costly and grandDecorate homes with munificent hand,Use, in some measure, your exquisite artsFor the improvement of minds and of hearts.Lilies must grow up from below,Where the strong rootlets are twining about;Goodness and honesty ever must flowFrom the heart-centres—to blossom without.
February28, 18—.
Wind in the west; no symptoms of a thaw;The coldest, bleakest day I ever saw.And I'm housed up, with nothing much to doExcept to read the papers through and through."Died of starvation!"—what does this all mean?Stores of provisions everywhere are seen."Died of starvation!"—here's the place and nameRight in the paper; let us blush for shame!This citywasteswhat any one would callNine hundred times enough to feed us all;And yet folks die in garret, hut, and street,Simply because there isn't enough to eat!Oh, heavens! there runs a great big Norway rat,Sleek as a banker, and almost as fat;He daily breakfasts, dines, and sups, and thrivesOn what would save a pair of human lives;He rears a family with his own fat features,On food we lock up from our fellow-creatures;And human beings fall down by the way,And die for want of food, this very day!"Frozen to death!"—the worse than useless mothMay feed, this year, on bales and bales of cloth;Untouched, ten million tons of coal can lie,While God's own human beings freeze and die!"Died of starvation!"—waves of golden wheatAll summer dashed and glistened at our feet;Dull, senseless grain is stored in buildings high,And God's own human beings starve and die!I would not rob from rich men what they earn,But I would have them sweet compassion learn;Oh, do not Pity's gentle voice defy,While God's own human beings starve and die!March5, 18—.Died of starvation!—yes, it has been done;To-day I've seen a hunger-murdered one,Who had a perfect right, it seemed to me,The mistress of a happy home to be;And yet we found her on a ragged bed,One white arm underneath a shapely head;Her long, bright hair was lying, fold on fold,Like finest threads spun from a bar of gold;Her face was chiselled after beauty's style,And want had not hewn out its witching smile;'Twas like white marble half endowed with breath—The face of this sweet maiden—starved to death!Not far from where she lay, so sadly lone,Her calendar, or "diary," was thrown;They let me have it when the law had readThis plaintive, girlish message from the dead.It doesn't look well among these notes to stay,Of one who feeds on blessings every day;But I will put it in here, for my heartTo look at when I feel too proud and smart!
Wind in the west; no symptoms of a thaw;The coldest, bleakest day I ever saw.And I'm housed up, with nothing much to doExcept to read the papers through and through.
"Died of starvation!"—what does this all mean?Stores of provisions everywhere are seen."Died of starvation!"—here's the place and nameRight in the paper; let us blush for shame!
This citywasteswhat any one would callNine hundred times enough to feed us all;And yet folks die in garret, hut, and street,Simply because there isn't enough to eat!
Oh, heavens! there runs a great big Norway rat,Sleek as a banker, and almost as fat;He daily breakfasts, dines, and sups, and thrivesOn what would save a pair of human lives;
He rears a family with his own fat features,On food we lock up from our fellow-creatures;And human beings fall down by the way,And die for want of food, this very day!
"Frozen to death!"—the worse than useless mothMay feed, this year, on bales and bales of cloth;Untouched, ten million tons of coal can lie,While God's own human beings freeze and die!
"Died of starvation!"—waves of golden wheatAll summer dashed and glistened at our feet;Dull, senseless grain is stored in buildings high,And God's own human beings starve and die!
I would not rob from rich men what they earn,But I would have them sweet compassion learn;Oh, do not Pity's gentle voice defy,While God's own human beings starve and die!
Died of starvation!—yes, it has been done;To-day I've seen a hunger-murdered one,Who had a perfect right, it seemed to me,The mistress of a happy home to be;And yet we found her on a ragged bed,One white arm underneath a shapely head;Her long, bright hair was lying, fold on fold,Like finest threads spun from a bar of gold;Her face was chiselled after beauty's style,And want had not hewn out its witching smile;'Twas like white marble half endowed with breath—The face of this sweet maiden—starved to death!
Not far from where she lay, so sadly lone,Her calendar, or "diary," was thrown;They let me have it when the law had readThis plaintive, girlish message from the dead.It doesn't look well among these notes to stay,Of one who feeds on blessings every day;But I will put it in here, for my heartTo look at when I feel too proud and smart!
February1, 18—.
Here—am I here?Or is it fancy, born of fear?Yes—O God, save me!—this is I,And not some wretch of whom I've read,In that bright girlhood, when the skyEach night strewed star-dust o'er my head;When each morn meant a gala-day,And all my little world was gay.I had not felt the touch of Care;I'd heard of something called Despair,But knew it only by its name.(How far it seemed!—how soon it came!)Yes, all the bright years hurried by;Sorrow was near, and—this is I!Is't the same girl that stood, one night,There in the wide hall's thrilling light,With all the costly robes astirThat love and pride had bought for her?How the great crowd, 'mid their kind din,Gazed with gaunt eyes and drank me in!And then they hushed at each low word,So Death himself might have been heard,To hear me mournfully rehearseThe tender Hood's pathetic verseAbout the woman who, half dead,Stitched her frail life in every thread.How little then I knew the need!Yet for my own sex I did plead,And my heart crept on each word's trackTill soft sobs from the crowd came back.
Here—am I here?Or is it fancy, born of fear?Yes—O God, save me!—this is I,And not some wretch of whom I've read,In that bright girlhood, when the skyEach night strewed star-dust o'er my head;When each morn meant a gala-day,And all my little world was gay.I had not felt the touch of Care;I'd heard of something called Despair,But knew it only by its name.(How far it seemed!—how soon it came!)Yes, all the bright years hurried by;Sorrow was near, and—this is I!
Is't the same girl that stood, one night,There in the wide hall's thrilling light,With all the costly robes astirThat love and pride had bought for her?How the great crowd, 'mid their kind din,Gazed with gaunt eyes and drank me in!And then they hushed at each low word,So Death himself might have been heard,To hear me mournfully rehearseThe tender Hood's pathetic verseAbout the woman who, half dead,Stitched her frail life in every thread.How little then I knew the need!Yet for my own sex I did plead,And my heart crept on each word's trackTill soft sobs from the crowd came back.
"IS'T THE SAME GIRL THAT STOOD, ONE NIGHT, THERE IN THE WIDE HALL'S THRILLING LIGHT?""IS'T THE SAME GIRL THAT STOOD, ONE NIGHT, THERE IN THE WIDE HALL'S THRILLING LIGHT?"
"IS'T THE SAME GIRL THAT STOOD, ONE NIGHT, THERE IN THE WIDE HALL'S THRILLING LIGHT?"
I saw my sister, streaming-eyed,Yet bearing still a face of pride:Oh, sister! when you looked at meWith that quick yearning glance of love,Did you peer on, to what might be—What is?—and is it known above?When that great throng a shout did raise,And gave me words of heart-felt praise,And loving eyes their incense burnedTill my young girlish head was turned—Did your clear eye see farther thenA moment past all mortal ken,And in the dreary scene I drewDid my own form appear to you?It might have been; grief was o'er-nigh,And—God, have pity!—this is I,Treading a steep and dang'rous way,And—earning twenty cents a day!
I saw my sister, streaming-eyed,Yet bearing still a face of pride:Oh, sister! when you looked at meWith that quick yearning glance of love,Did you peer on, to what might be—What is?—and is it known above?When that great throng a shout did raise,And gave me words of heart-felt praise,And loving eyes their incense burnedTill my young girlish head was turned—Did your clear eye see farther thenA moment past all mortal ken,And in the dreary scene I drewDid my own form appear to you?It might have been; grief was o'er-nigh,And—God, have pity!—this is I,Treading a steep and dang'rous way,And—earning twenty cents a day!
February5, 18—.
Father, this is the time we hailedAs your bright birthday. We ne'er failedTo throng about with love's fond arts,And bring you presents from our hearts;Your pleasure filled our day with bliss;Oh what a different one from this!My love, my father! how you stood'Twixt me and all that was not good!How, each o'er-hurried breath I drew,My girl-heart turned and clung to you!
Father, this is the time we hailedAs your bright birthday. We ne'er failedTo throng about with love's fond arts,And bring you presents from our hearts;Your pleasure filled our day with bliss;Oh what a different one from this!My love, my father! how you stood'Twixt me and all that was not good!How, each o'er-hurried breath I drew,My girl-heart turned and clung to you!
How near comes back that dismal dayYou sat, sad-faced, with naught to say,From morn till night! I did not dareEven to ask to soothe your care;I knew it was too sadly grandTo feel the light touch of my hand.Ah! friends you loved had gone astray,And swept our competence away;And oh, I strove so hard to saveYour honored gray hairs from the grave!Too late! your sun went down o'er-soon,Clouded, in life's mid-afternoon.You guarded me with patience rareFrom e'en the shadow of a care;You called me "Princess;" and my roomWas dressed as palaces might be;And—here I am amid this gloomThat mocks, insults, and murders me,Striving a garret's rent to pay,And—earning twenty cents a day!
How near comes back that dismal dayYou sat, sad-faced, with naught to say,From morn till night! I did not dareEven to ask to soothe your care;I knew it was too sadly grandTo feel the light touch of my hand.
Ah! friends you loved had gone astray,And swept our competence away;And oh, I strove so hard to saveYour honored gray hairs from the grave!Too late! your sun went down o'er-soon,Clouded, in life's mid-afternoon.You guarded me with patience rareFrom e'en the shadow of a care;You called me "Princess;" and my roomWas dressed as palaces might be;And—here I am amid this gloomThat mocks, insults, and murders me,Striving a garret's rent to pay,And—earning twenty cents a day!
February20, 18—.
I cannot well afford to write—My fingers are in call elsewhere;But I must voice my black despair,Or I should die before 'twas night.I have no mother now to call,And seek her heart, and tell her all.O, Mother! well I know you restIn yonder heaven, serene and blest:How sadly, strangely sweet 'twould beTo know you knew and pitied me!And yet I would not have you dreamE'en of the dagger's faintest gleamThat's pointing at my maiden breast.Rest on, sweet mother, sweetly rest!And still I feel your loving art,Sometimes upon my aching heart.That night I stood upon the pier,And the gray river swept so near,And glanced up at me in a waySome one with friendly voice might say,"Come to my arms and rest, poor girl."And I leaned down with head awhirl,And heart so heavy it might sinkMe underneath the river's brink,A hand I could not feel or seeDrew me away and fondled me;A voice I felt, unheard, though near,Said, "Wait! you must not enter here,And press against me with one stain.Poor girl, not long you need remain!"
I cannot well afford to write—My fingers are in call elsewhere;But I must voice my black despair,Or I should die before 'twas night.I have no mother now to call,And seek her heart, and tell her all.O, Mother! well I know you restIn yonder heaven, serene and blest:How sadly, strangely sweet 'twould beTo know you knew and pitied me!And yet I would not have you dreamE'en of the dagger's faintest gleamThat's pointing at my maiden breast.Rest on, sweet mother, sweetly rest!And still I feel your loving art,Sometimes upon my aching heart.That night I stood upon the pier,And the gray river swept so near,And glanced up at me in a waySome one with friendly voice might say,"Come to my arms and rest, poor girl."And I leaned down with head awhirl,And heart so heavy it might sinkMe underneath the river's brink,A hand I could not feel or seeDrew me away and fondled me;A voice I felt, unheard, though near,Said, "Wait! you must not enter here,And press against me with one stain.Poor girl, not long you need remain!"
"AND HATEFUL HUNGER HAS COME IN.""AND HATEFUL HUNGER HAS COME IN."
But, O sweet mother! I must writeThe words that would be said to-night,If you could hold my tired head here!I cannot see one gleam of cheer;This is a garret room, so bleakThe cold air stings my fading cheek;Fireless my room, my garb is thin,And hateful Hunger has come in,And says, "Toil on, you foolish one!You shall be mine when all is done."Two days and nights of pain and dreadI've gnawed upon a crust of bread(For what scant nourishment 'twould give)So hard, I could not eat and live!O mother! I to God shall prayThis tale in heaven may ne'er be told;For you are where whole streets are gold,And I—earn twenty cents a day!
But, O sweet mother! I must writeThe words that would be said to-night,If you could hold my tired head here!I cannot see one gleam of cheer;This is a garret room, so bleakThe cold air stings my fading cheek;Fireless my room, my garb is thin,And hateful Hunger has come in,And says, "Toil on, you foolish one!You shall be mine when all is done."Two days and nights of pain and dreadI've gnawed upon a crust of bread(For what scant nourishment 'twould give)So hard, I could not eat and live!O mother! I to God shall prayThis tale in heaven may ne'er be told;For you are where whole streets are gold,And I—earn twenty cents a day!
February22, 18—.
He never loved me. For no oneCould love and do as he has done.How my heart clung and clung to him,E'en when respect and faith grew dim;His lightest touch could thrill me so!Weak girl, 'twas hard to bid him go.Though wayward was his heart I knew,I would have sworn that he was true!Oh, how I loved him! or maybeLoved some one that I thought was he.They brought me—what? his mangled corse?Would God they had! They brought me worse.I saw one who should bear his name,One whose pale face was fiercely grieved,One whom he wantonly deceived,And sentenced to a life of shame.That was the end. I could not wedA man whose nobler self was dead.O, man!—a brave and god-like race,But you can be so vile and base!And when there is no urgent need,You can protect us well indeed;But when adversity is near,When the wave breaks upon our head,When we are crushed with want and dread,Then we have most from you to fear.Why do men strangely look me o'erWhen I their mercy need the more?Do they not know a girl may tasteThe dregs of want and yet be chaste?Should woman sell her soul awayTo save its manacles of clay?
He never loved me. For no oneCould love and do as he has done.How my heart clung and clung to him,E'en when respect and faith grew dim;His lightest touch could thrill me so!Weak girl, 'twas hard to bid him go.Though wayward was his heart I knew,I would have sworn that he was true!
Oh, how I loved him! or maybeLoved some one that I thought was he.They brought me—what? his mangled corse?Would God they had! They brought me worse.
I saw one who should bear his name,One whose pale face was fiercely grieved,One whom he wantonly deceived,And sentenced to a life of shame.That was the end. I could not wedA man whose nobler self was dead.
O, man!—a brave and god-like race,But you can be so vile and base!And when there is no urgent need,You can protect us well indeed;But when adversity is near,When the wave breaks upon our head,When we are crushed with want and dread,Then we have most from you to fear.Why do men strangely look me o'erWhen I their mercy need the more?Do they not know a girl may tasteThe dregs of want and yet be chaste?Should woman sell her soul awayTo save its manacles of clay?
February23, 1885.
All honest means of life have failed.The small accomplishments I've triedThat pleased friends in my days of pride,Are naught; but vice has not prevailed,And, thank Heaven, should not, though my heartWere torn a thousand times apart.But God shield helpless girls alwayWho live on twenty cents a day!
All honest means of life have failed.The small accomplishments I've triedThat pleased friends in my days of pride,Are naught; but vice has not prevailed,And, thank Heaven, should not, though my heartWere torn a thousand times apart.But God shield helpless girls alwayWho live on twenty cents a day!
February24, 1885.
Weak, weak, still weaker do I grow:My mournful fate I can but know;God, keep me not long here, I pray,To toil—on twenty cents a day!
Weak, weak, still weaker do I grow:My mournful fate I can but know;God, keep me not long here, I pray,To toil—on twenty cents a day!
February26, 1885.
Oh, horrors! is it—is it trueWhat I have read?—if I but knew!O, God, tell me where can I fly,Not to be found when I shall die!They say dead waifs are oft by nightRobbed of a decent burial's right;That fiends the friendless bodies bearTo crowds of waiting students, whereMen tear them up for men to see.O, God, sweet God, do pity me!And I will humbly pray to men:If this should come within the kenOf one who lives a true-loved life,Of one who sister has, or wife;One who loves women for the bestThat is in them, whose lips have pressedPure, genuine lips, whom women trust,Whose heart is free from loathsome lust;One whom I would have loved if heBrother or husband were to me—I ask you—nay, I do commandWith that imperiousness you soLike from a white and shapely hand—Iorderyou—but no, no, no;I am past that—I humbly prayThat you will see that I unmarredHave Christian burial. Guard, oh guard,You men with manly hearts and souls,My poor dead body from the ghouls!I strove alway to keep it pureAs the soul in me; it has beenType of the thoughts that lived within,The white slave of what shall endure,My spirit's loved though humble mate;Let none its white limbs desecrate!
Oh, horrors! is it—is it trueWhat I have read?—if I but knew!O, God, tell me where can I fly,Not to be found when I shall die!They say dead waifs are oft by nightRobbed of a decent burial's right;That fiends the friendless bodies bearTo crowds of waiting students, whereMen tear them up for men to see.O, God, sweet God, do pity me!And I will humbly pray to men:If this should come within the kenOf one who lives a true-loved life,Of one who sister has, or wife;One who loves women for the bestThat is in them, whose lips have pressedPure, genuine lips, whom women trust,Whose heart is free from loathsome lust;One whom I would have loved if heBrother or husband were to me—I ask you—nay, I do commandWith that imperiousness you soLike from a white and shapely hand—Iorderyou—but no, no, no;I am past that—I humbly prayThat you will see that I unmarredHave Christian burial. Guard, oh guard,You men with manly hearts and souls,My poor dead body from the ghouls!
I strove alway to keep it pureAs the soul in me; it has beenType of the thoughts that lived within,The white slave of what shall endure,My spirit's loved though humble mate;Let none its white limbs desecrate!
Weaker—yet weaker—'tis to dieThis sharp pain bids me. Ah! good-bye,World that I was too weak for—
Weaker—yet weaker—'tis to dieThis sharp pain bids me. Ah! good-bye,World that I was too weak for—
March10, 18—.
Back from a journey; mournful, it is true,But mingled with a deep-down sweetness, too.After the law with that poor girl was done,I found permission with the proper one,And, though such things by law could not occur,In my heart-family I adopted her.(Help much too late to benefit her, living—It's that way with a good share of our giving!)But, with a father's love, "Poor girl!" I said,"You shall have all that I can give you, dead!"I found, by lightning inquiries I made,The graveyard where her own loved ones were laid;I had her body tenderly removed,And placed among the dear ones that she loved,With all the honor that the poor, sweet childWould have if Fortune still upon her smiled.And when once more the flowers of summer blow,My wife and daughters and myself will goAnd make the sad but grateful duty oursTo see her last earth-dwelling roofed with flowers.
Back from a journey; mournful, it is true,But mingled with a deep-down sweetness, too.After the law with that poor girl was done,I found permission with the proper one,And, though such things by law could not occur,In my heart-family I adopted her.(Help much too late to benefit her, living—It's that way with a good share of our giving!)But, with a father's love, "Poor girl!" I said,"You shall have all that I can give you, dead!"I found, by lightning inquiries I made,The graveyard where her own loved ones were laid;I had her body tenderly removed,And placed among the dear ones that she loved,With all the honor that the poor, sweet childWould have if Fortune still upon her smiled.And when once more the flowers of summer blow,My wife and daughters and myself will goAnd make the sad but grateful duty oursTo see her last earth-dwelling roofed with flowers.
March15, 18—.
Fire!—fire!—fire!—fire!—it sets me in a crazeTo see a first-class building all ablaze;A burning house resembles, when I'm nigh,Some old acquaintance just about to die;For structures that a person often seesLook some like human beings—same as trees.(There used to be some trees on my old placeThat I'd know anywhere—just by their face.)And when, last night, some bells began to cry,And big fire-engines rushed and rattled by,In just three minutes down the stairs I strode,And hurried—somewhat dressed—into the road(Partly to help a bit, if so might be,And partly, I suppose, to hear and see).It was a dark and thunder-stormy night;There wasn't one inch of honest sky in sight;Great black-finned clouds were swimming through the air,And now and then their lightning-eyes would glare,And, like a lot of cannon far away,Some peals of thunder came from o'er the bay.'Twas one of those strange nights I can't explain,That make you think they're just a-going to rain,But never do—save now and then a traceOf a small drop comes dashing on your face;One of those nights that try to keep you vexedAnd wondering as to what will happen next.I like such times: they kind of draw me nearerTo things unseen, and make all mystery clearer.I ran like sin, and reached the fire at last:A good-sized church was going, pretty fast.(I'd noticed it a hundred times or more,And several times had stepped inside the door.)The burglar flames within had prowled aroundA long time previous to their being found,Till they had gained such foothold and such mightThey'd turned to robbers—stealing plain in sight.The dome and spires had on them flags of red;They soon came thundering down from overhead.It looked as if infernal spirits came,To take this church away, in smoke and flame!I wondered, in that wild, expensive glare,How many of the home-robbed flock were thereTo see the shelter where their souls had fedSwept from existence by that broom of red.Here was the family pew, so long time prized;There was the font where they had been baptized;Here was the altar, where one day they stood,Started for Heaven, and promised to be good;Or where they'd wept around some cherished loveWho'd "taken a letter" to The Church above.And still I thought, as my eyes soulward turned,How many things there are that can't be burned;But still we cling, and cling, and hate to partWith the place where we found them on the start.A sneerish sort of fellow stood by me,And said, "To such extent as I can see,When churches get afire, by night or day,The Lord stands still and lets 'em burn away.If this is His abode beyond a doubt,Why doesn't He raise his hand and put it out?"Said I, "Young man, please do not try to aidWith your advice the mighty Power that madeWhat little there is of you. There are stillSchemes you don't comprehend, and never will.You're talented, I think; but no one caresTo have you help the Lord in His affairs.Why, probably, right where that church has stood,There'll soon be built another, twice as good;And some mean, tight insurance company willPerhaps be made to pay more'n half the bill.The Lord knows, in these fool-confounding scenes,When to rebuild, and where to get the means."He turned away his head exceeding far,And lit a little bit of white cigar;But gave, "to such extent as I could see,"No more of his theology to me.I'm none too good; but when men jeer and flout,I like to have them know what they're about.
Fire!—fire!—fire!—fire!—it sets me in a crazeTo see a first-class building all ablaze;A burning house resembles, when I'm nigh,Some old acquaintance just about to die;For structures that a person often seesLook some like human beings—same as trees.(There used to be some trees on my old placeThat I'd know anywhere—just by their face.)And when, last night, some bells began to cry,And big fire-engines rushed and rattled by,In just three minutes down the stairs I strode,And hurried—somewhat dressed—into the road(Partly to help a bit, if so might be,And partly, I suppose, to hear and see).It was a dark and thunder-stormy night;There wasn't one inch of honest sky in sight;Great black-finned clouds were swimming through the air,And now and then their lightning-eyes would glare,And, like a lot of cannon far away,Some peals of thunder came from o'er the bay.'Twas one of those strange nights I can't explain,That make you think they're just a-going to rain,But never do—save now and then a traceOf a small drop comes dashing on your face;One of those nights that try to keep you vexedAnd wondering as to what will happen next.I like such times: they kind of draw me nearerTo things unseen, and make all mystery clearer.
I ran like sin, and reached the fire at last:A good-sized church was going, pretty fast.(I'd noticed it a hundred times or more,And several times had stepped inside the door.)The burglar flames within had prowled aroundA long time previous to their being found,Till they had gained such foothold and such mightThey'd turned to robbers—stealing plain in sight.The dome and spires had on them flags of red;They soon came thundering down from overhead.It looked as if infernal spirits came,To take this church away, in smoke and flame!
I wondered, in that wild, expensive glare,How many of the home-robbed flock were thereTo see the shelter where their souls had fedSwept from existence by that broom of red.Here was the family pew, so long time prized;There was the font where they had been baptized;Here was the altar, where one day they stood,Started for Heaven, and promised to be good;Or where they'd wept around some cherished loveWho'd "taken a letter" to The Church above.And still I thought, as my eyes soulward turned,How many things there are that can't be burned;But still we cling, and cling, and hate to partWith the place where we found them on the start.
A sneerish sort of fellow stood by me,And said, "To such extent as I can see,When churches get afire, by night or day,The Lord stands still and lets 'em burn away.If this is His abode beyond a doubt,Why doesn't He raise his hand and put it out?"Said I, "Young man, please do not try to aidWith your advice the mighty Power that madeWhat little there is of you. There are stillSchemes you don't comprehend, and never will.You're talented, I think; but no one caresTo have you help the Lord in His affairs.Why, probably, right where that church has stood,There'll soon be built another, twice as good;And some mean, tight insurance company willPerhaps be made to pay more'n half the bill.The Lord knows, in these fool-confounding scenes,When to rebuild, and where to get the means."
He turned away his head exceeding far,And lit a little bit of white cigar;But gave, "to such extent as I could see,"No more of his theology to me.I'm none too good; but when men jeer and flout,I like to have them know what they're about.
When Prometheus stole the flame,Did he know what with it came?Did he look afar and seeAll the blessings that would be?Could he view the gentle gloamOf the fireside of a home?Or the centre-table's blaze,Turning evenings into days,Where, encamped with quiet zest,Happy children toil and rest?Did he view the parlor's gleam,Or the 'wildering palace dream?See the torch's floating glareBurn its way through walls of air;Or, through under-regions traceEarth's remotest hiding-place?Did he see the flags of steamO'er the cities flash and gleam?To his vision, like a star,Did the light-house gleam afar,Which another eye should beTo the traveller of the sea?If Prometheus, tortured—bound—Knew the blessings man had found,Then his sufferings must have beenSoothed by blessings from within.
When Prometheus stole the flame,Did he know what with it came?Did he look afar and seeAll the blessings that would be?Could he view the gentle gloamOf the fireside of a home?Or the centre-table's blaze,Turning evenings into days,Where, encamped with quiet zest,Happy children toil and rest?Did he view the parlor's gleam,Or the 'wildering palace dream?See the torch's floating glareBurn its way through walls of air;Or, through under-regions traceEarth's remotest hiding-place?Did he see the flags of steamO'er the cities flash and gleam?To his vision, like a star,Did the light-house gleam afar,Which another eye should beTo the traveller of the sea?If Prometheus, tortured—bound—Knew the blessings man had found,Then his sufferings must have beenSoothed by blessings from within.
When Prometheus stole the flame,Did he know what with it came?Did he see the fire up-steal,Rise, and take its midnight meal?Did he view the palace wallStumble 'mid the smoke and fall?Did he see some cherished homeFeed a fiery ocean's foam?Did he hear the war-alarmsOf a nation called to arms,And behold men, in their ire,Murdering men with bolts of fire?Did some miscreant cross his sight,Bent on booty or on spite,Stealing steps into the dark,With the incendiary spark?Did there, faint and haggard, riseGhosts before his startled eyes,Godly men of scathless name,Felled for fuel to the flame;In a short-lived earthly hellThrown, for voicing heaven too well?If he knew that glittering thingWould to Earth such curses bring,Then his sufferings may have beenEdged with poison from within.
When Prometheus stole the flame,Did he know what with it came?Did he see the fire up-steal,Rise, and take its midnight meal?Did he view the palace wallStumble 'mid the smoke and fall?Did he see some cherished homeFeed a fiery ocean's foam?Did he hear the war-alarmsOf a nation called to arms,And behold men, in their ire,Murdering men with bolts of fire?Did some miscreant cross his sight,Bent on booty or on spite,Stealing steps into the dark,With the incendiary spark?Did there, faint and haggard, riseGhosts before his startled eyes,Godly men of scathless name,Felled for fuel to the flame;In a short-lived earthly hellThrown, for voicing heaven too well?
If he knew that glittering thingWould to Earth such curses bring,Then his sufferings may have beenEdged with poison from within.
March20, 18—.