But speak in words of living power, They fall like drops of scalding rain That plashed before the burning shower Swept o'er the cities of the plain ! Then scowling Hate turns deadly pale,Then Passion's half-coiled adders spring, And, smitten through their leprous mail, Strike right and lef in hope to sting. If thou, unmoved by poisoning wrath, Too kind for bitter words to grieve, Ah, then beware of mortal pride! The smiling pride that calmly scorns Those foolish fingers, crimson dyed In laboring on thy crown of thorns! AVIS. I MAY not rightly call thy name, - Alas! thy forehead never knew The kiss that happier children claim, Nor glistened with baptismal dew. Daughter of want and wrong and woe, I saw thee with thy sister-band, Snatched from the whirlpool's narrowing flow By Mercy's strong yet trembling hand. -"Avis!" With Saxon eye and cheek, At once a woman and a child, The saint uncrowned I came to seek Drew near to greet us, — spoke, and smiled. God gave that sweet sad smile she wore All wrong to shame, all souls to win, A heavenly sunbeam sent before Her footsteps through a world of sin. "And who is Avis?". Hear the tale The calm-voiced matrons gravely tell,The story known through all the vale Where Avis and her sisters dwell. With the lost children running wild, They find one little refuse child Left helpless in its poisoned lair. The chattel-stamp, the pariah-stain That follows still her hunted race, The curse without the crime of Cain. How shall our smooth-turned phrase relate The little suffering outcast's ail? Not Lazarus at the rich man's gate So turned the rose-wreathed revellers pale. Ah, veil the living death from sight The white-lipped nurses hurry by. Take her, dread Angel! Break in love This bruised reed and make it thine! No voice descended from above, But Avis answered," She is mine.” The task that dainty menials spurn The fair young girl has made her own; Her heart shall teach, her hand shall learn The toils, the duties yet unknown. So Love and Death in lingering strife Still battling for the spoil of Life While the slow seasons creep away. Love conquers Death; the prize is won; The bronze against the marble breast! Her task is done; no voice divine Has crowned her deeds with saintly fame. No eye can see the aureole shine That rings her brow with heavenly flame. Yet what has holy page more sweet, Meek child of sorrow, walk unknown, And let thine image live alone To hallow this unstudied song! |