STREET WAIF.
I.From morn till noon, from noon till night,Pacing the sidewalk, always in sight,Who has not seen the mysterious wight?Is he man or ghost?Is he crazed or lost?Does he walk with the fiends or the spirits of light?II.Answer, ye flagstones that echo his tread;—Answer, ye cold winds that buffet his head;—Tell us, ye clouds, that with pinions outspreadSmite him with fire,And mock at his ire,Shuns he the living for love of the dead?Through the long lapse of the changing yearHis crumbling garments unchanged appear,The old drab coat, and the thing so queerStuck to his pate!All out of date,Tempting the urchins to point and jeer.—“Poor waif!”III.Poor waif!—’tis the murmur of angels who grieve;’Tis a voice from the clouds which my soul must receive.Tell me the secret whose whispers bereaveHis eyelids of joy;Preserve or destroy,Crush him in mercy, or grant a reprieve.IV.Has he been guilty of some dark deed?Surely no crime in that brow could breed!So lofty, so mild in its terrible need?Has he betrayedAn innocent maid?Or plundered the poor to surfeit his greed?V.Has he, for sake of a crumb and a sip,With loyalty’s cry evermore on his lip,Counselled the use of a merciless whipWhen failure brought blameOn the Patriot’s name,And tyrants their hot-sided beagles let slip?VI.Has he been cruel to nearest of kin?The mother who loved him, and pleaded to winHer prodigal back from the desert of sin?Has he struck in base ireThe cheek of his sire?Then plunge him in Acheron up to the chin.—“Poor waif!”VII.That tender refrain which the angels repeat,The angels who hover o’er alley and street,Let me interpret its sound as is meet.’Tis a pitiful cry!’Tis the sob of the sky!—Is he the victim of woman’s deceit?VIII.O, ye invisible shapes of the air—Ye watchers that wait upon heaven—declare,Sees he naught else but a face that is fair?Murmur againThe tender refrain,If that and that only, hath wrought his despair.—“Poor waif!”IX.Then have I wronged him! and grieve at his fate;But love’s load of sorrow no love can abate,Naming, still naming her, early and late.A dim dream of bliss,The soft light of a kiss,Only may enter through memory’s gate.X.Within, what a ruin! arch, column and cope,The palace of wisdom, ambition, and hope,All broken and blasted! what spectres now gropeThrough the blue charnel gloomOf each desolate room!Blind, shrivelled and maimed, they but mumble and mope.—“Poor waif!”XI.Now am I certain that beauty’s false art,A maid’s broken promise hath broken his heartNo other evil such look could impartTo manhood’s fair brow;Only speak of her now,And mark how the eye-drowning sorrow will startXII.Wild-eyed, but erect as a soldier-king,Through theRue St. Jacques, with a tireless swing,Onward he strides; let the fire-bells ring,And their terror outpour,While the red flames roar,Nothing cares he for the summons they fling.XIII.And why should he care? why linger, or start?The fierce-hissing tongues that the fire-fiends dartFrom window and roof, from the square to the mart,Are harmless and mild,As the laugh of a child,Compared to the tempest of flame in his heart.XIV.Why care? when the thousands who sweep through the city,The judge with black cap, and the maid with her ditty,Bestow on love’s ruin no question of pity.The crowds that he meetsOn the merciless streetsOnly smite him anew with some word that is witty.XV.Kind ghosts, whose compassionate voices I hearHigh up in the air, come hither, come near!Close down his eyelids and fashion his bier;O let him passUnder flower and grass!Men are too busy to grant him a tear.XVI.Good angels! stoop earthward and bear him awayOut of the city’s tumultuous fray;Tenderly kiss his parched lips, and then layHis body to restOn the mountain’s lone breast,Where shadows and sunbeams in happiness play!
I.From morn till noon, from noon till night,Pacing the sidewalk, always in sight,Who has not seen the mysterious wight?Is he man or ghost?Is he crazed or lost?Does he walk with the fiends or the spirits of light?II.Answer, ye flagstones that echo his tread;—Answer, ye cold winds that buffet his head;—Tell us, ye clouds, that with pinions outspreadSmite him with fire,And mock at his ire,Shuns he the living for love of the dead?Through the long lapse of the changing yearHis crumbling garments unchanged appear,The old drab coat, and the thing so queerStuck to his pate!All out of date,Tempting the urchins to point and jeer.—“Poor waif!”III.Poor waif!—’tis the murmur of angels who grieve;’Tis a voice from the clouds which my soul must receive.Tell me the secret whose whispers bereaveHis eyelids of joy;Preserve or destroy,Crush him in mercy, or grant a reprieve.IV.Has he been guilty of some dark deed?Surely no crime in that brow could breed!So lofty, so mild in its terrible need?Has he betrayedAn innocent maid?Or plundered the poor to surfeit his greed?V.Has he, for sake of a crumb and a sip,With loyalty’s cry evermore on his lip,Counselled the use of a merciless whipWhen failure brought blameOn the Patriot’s name,And tyrants their hot-sided beagles let slip?VI.Has he been cruel to nearest of kin?The mother who loved him, and pleaded to winHer prodigal back from the desert of sin?Has he struck in base ireThe cheek of his sire?Then plunge him in Acheron up to the chin.—“Poor waif!”VII.That tender refrain which the angels repeat,The angels who hover o’er alley and street,Let me interpret its sound as is meet.’Tis a pitiful cry!’Tis the sob of the sky!—Is he the victim of woman’s deceit?VIII.O, ye invisible shapes of the air—Ye watchers that wait upon heaven—declare,Sees he naught else but a face that is fair?Murmur againThe tender refrain,If that and that only, hath wrought his despair.—“Poor waif!”IX.Then have I wronged him! and grieve at his fate;But love’s load of sorrow no love can abate,Naming, still naming her, early and late.A dim dream of bliss,The soft light of a kiss,Only may enter through memory’s gate.X.Within, what a ruin! arch, column and cope,The palace of wisdom, ambition, and hope,All broken and blasted! what spectres now gropeThrough the blue charnel gloomOf each desolate room!Blind, shrivelled and maimed, they but mumble and mope.—“Poor waif!”XI.Now am I certain that beauty’s false art,A maid’s broken promise hath broken his heartNo other evil such look could impartTo manhood’s fair brow;Only speak of her now,And mark how the eye-drowning sorrow will startXII.Wild-eyed, but erect as a soldier-king,Through theRue St. Jacques, with a tireless swing,Onward he strides; let the fire-bells ring,And their terror outpour,While the red flames roar,Nothing cares he for the summons they fling.XIII.And why should he care? why linger, or start?The fierce-hissing tongues that the fire-fiends dartFrom window and roof, from the square to the mart,Are harmless and mild,As the laugh of a child,Compared to the tempest of flame in his heart.XIV.Why care? when the thousands who sweep through the city,The judge with black cap, and the maid with her ditty,Bestow on love’s ruin no question of pity.The crowds that he meetsOn the merciless streetsOnly smite him anew with some word that is witty.XV.Kind ghosts, whose compassionate voices I hearHigh up in the air, come hither, come near!Close down his eyelids and fashion his bier;O let him passUnder flower and grass!Men are too busy to grant him a tear.XVI.Good angels! stoop earthward and bear him awayOut of the city’s tumultuous fray;Tenderly kiss his parched lips, and then layHis body to restOn the mountain’s lone breast,Where shadows and sunbeams in happiness play!
I.From morn till noon, from noon till night,Pacing the sidewalk, always in sight,Who has not seen the mysterious wight?Is he man or ghost?Is he crazed or lost?Does he walk with the fiends or the spirits of light?
II.Answer, ye flagstones that echo his tread;—Answer, ye cold winds that buffet his head;—Tell us, ye clouds, that with pinions outspreadSmite him with fire,And mock at his ire,Shuns he the living for love of the dead?
Through the long lapse of the changing yearHis crumbling garments unchanged appear,The old drab coat, and the thing so queerStuck to his pate!All out of date,Tempting the urchins to point and jeer.—“Poor waif!”
III.Poor waif!—’tis the murmur of angels who grieve;’Tis a voice from the clouds which my soul must receive.Tell me the secret whose whispers bereaveHis eyelids of joy;Preserve or destroy,Crush him in mercy, or grant a reprieve.
IV.Has he been guilty of some dark deed?Surely no crime in that brow could breed!So lofty, so mild in its terrible need?Has he betrayedAn innocent maid?Or plundered the poor to surfeit his greed?
V.Has he, for sake of a crumb and a sip,With loyalty’s cry evermore on his lip,Counselled the use of a merciless whipWhen failure brought blameOn the Patriot’s name,And tyrants their hot-sided beagles let slip?
VI.Has he been cruel to nearest of kin?The mother who loved him, and pleaded to winHer prodigal back from the desert of sin?Has he struck in base ireThe cheek of his sire?Then plunge him in Acheron up to the chin.—“Poor waif!”
VII.That tender refrain which the angels repeat,The angels who hover o’er alley and street,Let me interpret its sound as is meet.’Tis a pitiful cry!’Tis the sob of the sky!—Is he the victim of woman’s deceit?
VIII.O, ye invisible shapes of the air—Ye watchers that wait upon heaven—declare,Sees he naught else but a face that is fair?Murmur againThe tender refrain,If that and that only, hath wrought his despair.—“Poor waif!”
IX.Then have I wronged him! and grieve at his fate;But love’s load of sorrow no love can abate,Naming, still naming her, early and late.A dim dream of bliss,The soft light of a kiss,Only may enter through memory’s gate.
X.Within, what a ruin! arch, column and cope,The palace of wisdom, ambition, and hope,All broken and blasted! what spectres now gropeThrough the blue charnel gloomOf each desolate room!Blind, shrivelled and maimed, they but mumble and mope.—“Poor waif!”
XI.Now am I certain that beauty’s false art,A maid’s broken promise hath broken his heartNo other evil such look could impartTo manhood’s fair brow;Only speak of her now,And mark how the eye-drowning sorrow will start
XII.Wild-eyed, but erect as a soldier-king,Through theRue St. Jacques, with a tireless swing,Onward he strides; let the fire-bells ring,And their terror outpour,While the red flames roar,Nothing cares he for the summons they fling.
XIII.And why should he care? why linger, or start?The fierce-hissing tongues that the fire-fiends dartFrom window and roof, from the square to the mart,Are harmless and mild,As the laugh of a child,Compared to the tempest of flame in his heart.
XIV.Why care? when the thousands who sweep through the city,The judge with black cap, and the maid with her ditty,Bestow on love’s ruin no question of pity.The crowds that he meetsOn the merciless streetsOnly smite him anew with some word that is witty.
XV.Kind ghosts, whose compassionate voices I hearHigh up in the air, come hither, come near!Close down his eyelids and fashion his bier;O let him passUnder flower and grass!Men are too busy to grant him a tear.
XVI.Good angels! stoop earthward and bear him awayOut of the city’s tumultuous fray;Tenderly kiss his parched lips, and then layHis body to restOn the mountain’s lone breast,Where shadows and sunbeams in happiness play!