Brave womanly heart that, beholding the shore,
Beholds her own grave unaware,--
Though the days to come their shame should unveil
Yet onward she still would dare!
Though the meadows smile with statesmanly guile,
And the cuckoo's call is a snare!
Turn aside, O Queen, from the cruel land,
From the greedy shore turn away;
From shame upon shame:--But most shame for those
On their passionate captive who play
With a subtle net, hope enwoven with threat,
Hung out to tempt her astray!
Poor scape-goat of crimes, where,--her part what it may,--
So tortured, so hunted to die,
Foul age of deceit and of hate,--on her head
Least stains of gore-guiltiness lie;
To the hearts of the just her blood from the dust
Not in vain for mercy will cry.
Poor scape-goat of nations and faiths in their strife
So cruel,--and thou so fair!
Poor girl!--so, best, in her misery named,--
Discrown'd of two kingdoms, and bare;
Not first nor last on this one was cast
The burden that others should share.
--When the race is convened at the great assize
And the last long trumpet-call,
If Woman 'gainst Man, in her just appeal,
At the feet of the Judge should fall,
O the cause were secure;--the sentence sure!
--But she will forgive him all!--
O keen heart-hunger for days that were;
Last look at a vanishing shore!
In two short words all bitterness summ'd,
That _Has been_ and _Nevermore_!
Nor with one caress will Mary bless,
Nor look on the babe she bore!
Blow, bitter wind, with a cry of death,
Blow over the western bay:
The sunshine is gone from the desolate girl,
And before is the doomster-day,
And the saw-dust red with the heart's-blood shed
In the shambles of Fotheringay.
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