The Village Wife's Lament.

by Maurice Hewlett.

I

O what is this you've done to me, Or what have I done, That bare should be our fair roof-tree, And I all alone?

'Tis worse than widow I become More than desolate, To face a worse than empty home Without child or mate.

'Twas not my strife askt him his life When it was but begun, Nor mine, I was a new-made wife And now I am none; Nor mine that many a sapless ghost Wails in sorrow-fare-- But this does cost my pride the most, That bloodshedding to share.

Image of streaming eyes, tear-gleaming, Of women foiled and defeat, I am like Christ shockt out of dreaming, Showing His hands and feet; Showing His feet and hands to G.o.d, Saying, "Are these in vain?

For men I have trod the sorrowful road, And by them I am slain."

Seeing I have a breast in common, I must share in that shame, Since from the womb of some poor woman Each evil one came-- Every hot and blundering thought, Every hag-rid will, And every haut king pride-distraught That drove men out to kill.

A woman's womb did fashion him, Her bosom was his nurse, And many women's eyes are dim To see their sons a curse.

Had I the wit some women have To one such I would say, "Think you this love the good Lord gave Is yours to take away?"

O Hand divine that for a sign Didst bend the rose-red bow, Betokening wrath was no more Thine With man's Cain-branded brow-- What now, O Lord, shouldst Thou accord To such a shameful brood?

A bow as crimson as the sword Which men have soakt in blood.

ii

I cannot see the gra.s.s Or feel the wind blowing, But I think of brother and brother And hot blood flowing.

The whole world akin, And I, an alien, Walk branded with the sin And the blood-guilt of men.

And often I cry In my sharp distress, It were better to die Than know such bitterness.

iii

The Lord of Life He did ordain How this world should run, That Love should call thro' joy and pain Two natures to be one; Now jags across the high G.o.d's plan Division like a scar, For this is true, that He made man, But man made war.

Had men the dower of teeth and claws And not a grace beside them?

Were they given wit to know the laws And hard hearts to outride them?

What drove them turn the sweet green earth Into a puddle of blood?

What drove them drown our simple mirth In salt tear-flood?

Has man been lifted up erect, A lord of life and death, His world's elect, and his brow deckt With murder for a wreath?

What shall be done with such an one, And whither he be hurl'd?

The Lord let crucify His Son-- Who gibbetted His world?

iv

Be it Pole Star or Southern Cross That shelters me or you, The same things are gain and loss, And the same things true: The home-love, the mother-love, The old, old things; The lad's love of maiden's love That gives a man wings,

And makes a maid stand still, afraid Lest it were all a dream That he do think himself apaid If she be all to him.

The arching earth has no more worth Than this, to love, to wed, To serve the hearth, to bring to birth, To win your children's bread.

v

The bee pills nothing for himself, Loading with gold his thigh, The martin twittering, at his shelf, Glancing from the sky Not greedy ease make slaves of these; Nor yet endures the cow, Her failing knees and agonies For price of joy I vow.

A call above the spell of love, A crying and a need To make two one, the fruit whereof To nurture and to feed; To brood, to h.o.a.rd, to spend as rain Virtue and tears and blood; To get that you may give amain-- Of such is parenthood.

vi

I chose a heart out of a hundred To nest my own heart in; To have that plunder'd, and two hearts sunder'd-- Who had heart for the sin?

What woman's son that saw but one Such sanctuary waste Could set his lips like ironstone And raven broadcast?

What harm did we to any man That now I must moan?

We did but follow Nature's plan And cleave to our own; For Life it teaches you but this: Seek you each other; Rise up from your clasp and kiss, A father and a mother.

O piety of hand and knee, Of lips and bow'd head!

O ye who see a soul set free-- Free, when the heart is dead!

There is no rest but in the grave; Thither my wasted eyes Turn for the only home they have, Where my true love lies.

There alongside his clay-cold corse I pray that mine may rest; I'll warm him with my lover's force And feed him at my breast: I'll nurse him as I nurst his child, The child he never saw, The stricken child that never smil'd.

And scarce my milk could draw.

Poor girls, whose argument's the same For seeking or denying, Who kiss to shield yourselves from blame, And kiss for justifying; How am I better now or worse, Beguiler or beguiled, Who crave to nurse a clay-cold corse, And kiss a dead child?

vii

O I was shap't in comeliness, My face was fashion'd fair, My breath was sweet, I used to bless The treasure of my hair; A many prais'd my body's grace, And follow'd with the eye My faring in the village ways, And I knew why.

Love came my way, fire-flusht and gay, Where I did stand: "This is the day your pride to lay Under a true man's hand."

I bow'd my head to hear it said In words of long ago; For ever since the world was made Our lot was order'd so.

And I was bred in pious bed, Brought up to be good: Respect yourself, my mother said, And rule your own mood.

Fend for yourself while you're a may, And keep your own counsel, And pick at what the neighbours say As a bird picks at groundsel.

But Love said Nay to Watch and Pray When the birds were singing, And taught my heart a roundelay Like the bells a-ringing; And so blindfast I ran and cast My treasure on the gale-- Would the storm-blast had snapt the mast Before I fared to sail!

II

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