Those pallid sempstresses of HOOD'S great song
Peopled the hollow dark, not now alone,
And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong,
And grief's sad monotone,
From hearts, like flints, beaten by tyrant hoofs;
And I saw crowds in sombre sweating-dens,
With reeking walls and dank and dripping roofs--
Fit scarce for styes or pens.
Death at home's sin-stained threshold; honour's fall
Dislodging from her throne love's household pet,
And wan-faced purity a tyrant's thrall,
With wild eyes sorrow-wet.
And unsexed women facing heated blasts
And Tophet fumes, and fluttering tongues of fire;
And virtue staked on most unholy casts,
And honour sold for hire:
Squadrons and troops of girls of brazen air,
Tramping the tainted city to and fro,
With feverish flauntings veiling chill despair
And deeply-centred woe.
So shape chased shape. I saw a neat-garbed nurse,
Wan with excessive work; and, bowed with toil,
A shop-girl sickly, of the primal curse
Each looked the helpless spoil.
Anon I saw a lady, at night's fall
Stiller than chiseled marble, standing there;
A daughter of compassion, slender, tall,
And delicately fair.
Her weariness with shame and with surprise
My spirit shocked: she turning on my face
The heavy glances of unrested eyes,
Spoke mildly in her place.
"I have long duties; ask thou not my name
Some say I fret at a fair destiny.
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