Select Poetry.

Thames Star, Volume XII, Issue 3778, 5 February 1881, Page 1

Select Poetry.

BEST. , Prai of the London Shop gubi. Best! I suppose there is some such thing I^E'en in this our world, though the prencher'i text On Sunday warned us that Hope's tired wing For final folding must wait the next. Yet he seemed at ease in his pulpit snug, And the shining Cits in their padded pewi Must have known rest's meaning, they looked so snug i Nay, their stabled horses, in well-stallyd mewi, Having borne their burden of fine clad flesh From th° crowded church at the sermou'l close, ' ■"■&■'■ Found c'en man-masters must fain refresh A dumb bruteVl&Wmrjwith. *li.6lit repose._ _— Bat I ? For a dozen long hours a day, Six days in seven to stand, stand, itand, Till the sore-Btrain«d sinews with pain give ■ 'wayi ' ........ And the sick heart sink-I,—that is Man'i demand Of mere flesh and blood in a Woman's shape, When that Woman is poor, and must toil for life, The vesture vending that goes to drape Fate favored sisters, or maid, or wife. And to talk of rest te such slaves as I Jn the few snatched moments of toil's surcease, Is like bidding the torturer's victim try To sleep 'twixt the rack turns and dream of peace. * I saw him tbere iv the gilded church, My Christian master, a shining light. Philanthropy is the saintly perch Be mounts in public, of conscious right. I think he champions Sclavs—or Turks, I know he feeds upon platform praise; Does he ever thir.k of the slave who works In hie hell of shopdom through dreary days ? I am near, a nobody, no one cares To sing my sufferings—preach my wrongs; The harried vendors of hucksters' wares Provoke no speeches ; inspire no songs. Too poor, too prosy ! And yet, dear Heaven, How woefully weary poor flesh can be ! Romancf s lovers are little given To seek the tragic in such as we. But nature speaks in the lowliest heart, Though it is not always a lyrio cry. There are many victims iri Shoddy'r mart j I have seen them suffer, and pale, and die : I have seen them take to the road of shame As a ready, rosy, if short relief From woman-woes that I may not" name, And petty wrongs that might pass belief. And I —what better am I than they ? What stronger, hopefuller, after all ? Must it come at last, when some wretched day Of bitter bondage shall fire the thrall ? When ruthless shop-rules that war with health And merciless finings that mock at right, My little strength and my lesser wealth Have taxed till patience is put to flight: When the weary flesh, and the spirit crushed, And the secret, sore, life-sapping ills, Sin-fire a fancy that once had blushed '# At thought of the refuge that saves—and kills. Not yet! But if, or—ah, Heaven !— 'token,—• r±'he pitiless rule and the penul rack One more have maddened, and Mammon's pen Strikes through the name of one more slain hack, _. Will the wealth-spoiled women who, seated, wear ...... My flagging strength with . thehv wantom whims, . Tha blame of the bonds woman's soul-wreck share ? ' Will the fcleek-facel fingers of eaintly hymns, The lynx-eyed traders oa ; girlish toil, Who urge, and harry and tax and test, Take any stain from the shame and soil 0 Of an o'er-worked woman who sinned—for rest? —London Punch.