Infanticide
Above us the clouds are wild and black,
The winds are howling on our track,
The shivering trees are bare and bleak,
My heart is sick, and my limbs are weak,
Wandering wearily, wearily.
They turned me away from the rich man's door,
Haggard and hungry, cold and poor.
There was feasting, laughter and song within;
But they turned me away, in my tatters thin,
With thee, thou pledge of my shame and sin—
Away, where the wind sobs drearily.
My heart was cold, and the demons came,
With their livid lips and their eyes of flame;
They told me to murder thee, child of shame,
And laughed till my brain whirled dizzily.
They followed my path through the drifted snow,
Taunting, and mocking, and gibbering low:
“There is peace and rest where the cold waves flow
Far down o'er the white sands busily.”
I felt their breath on my tortured brain;
They tore my heart and I shrieked in vain;
They whispered: “Death is the end of pain;
Fly, fly to the grave's security.
The world will turn from the hideous stain
That mars thy womanly purity,”
They bade me remember the bright old time,
My cottage home in a foreign clime,
The friends I lost by my love and crime,
Till, smothering my soul's humanity,
I grasped, in the strength of my deep despair,
Thy neck, my babe—it was soft and fair;
But the warm blood curdled and blackened there,
To witness my wild insanity.
How quiet, rigid and cold thou art!
I lay thy head on my fainting heart,
And kiss thy lips, with a quivering start!
My hand—God! let me not think of it!
I have seen thee smile, I have felt thy breath;
Can I feel it now? O death, pale death!
Thy lethean cup, let me drink of it!
We'll make us a bed in the snow so deep;
The frost with a shroud will cover us;
The winds will lull us to dreamless sleep,
And the stars, in their far-off homes, will keep
Their beautiful night-watch over us.
Where is the father of that dead child,
That sleeps where the winds wail mournfully?
He left the woman his love beguiled—
Is the monster loathed, contemned, reviled?
Does the world regard him scornfully?
He is revelling now where the lamps are bright,
Where the hours go by in a festive flight,
And the gleeful song rings merrily.
They wish him joy on his bridal night,
And warm, young hearts beat cheerily.
The bride is a creature of love and youth,
With an eye of light and a lip of truth,
And a fair form moulded slenderly;
Her heart is a fountain of kindly ruth,
That flows for the suffering tenderly.
Oh, little she dreams that a wretch defamed,
Deceived, dishonoured, betrayed, ashamed,
By the strength of the bridegroom's oath once claimed
The love she is fondly cherishing.
For he is a model of manly grace,
With the sounding name of a noble race:
He has power, and fame, and fair, broad land,
And there is no blood on his jewelled hand
To tell of the lost one perishing.
Where censers breathe and jewels shine,
They pledge him now in the rich, red wine;
But never by token, or word, or sign,
Allude to his victim's history.
They fill the cup to the sparkling brim,
With life and pleasure and fame for him.
The future is bright; let the past be dim,
And wrapped in a fearful mystery.
The winds are howling on our track,
The shivering trees are bare and bleak,
My heart is sick, and my limbs are weak,
Wandering wearily, wearily.
They turned me away from the rich man's door,
Haggard and hungry, cold and poor.
There was feasting, laughter and song within;
But they turned me away, in my tatters thin,
With thee, thou pledge of my shame and sin—
Away, where the wind sobs drearily.
My heart was cold, and the demons came,
With their livid lips and their eyes of flame;
They told me to murder thee, child of shame,
And laughed till my brain whirled dizzily.
They followed my path through the drifted snow,
Taunting, and mocking, and gibbering low:
“There is peace and rest where the cold waves flow
Far down o'er the white sands busily.”
I felt their breath on my tortured brain;
They tore my heart and I shrieked in vain;
They whispered: “Death is the end of pain;
Fly, fly to the grave's security.
The world will turn from the hideous stain
That mars thy womanly purity,”
They bade me remember the bright old time,
My cottage home in a foreign clime,
The friends I lost by my love and crime,
Till, smothering my soul's humanity,
I grasped, in the strength of my deep despair,
Thy neck, my babe—it was soft and fair;
But the warm blood curdled and blackened there,
To witness my wild insanity.
How quiet, rigid and cold thou art!
I lay thy head on my fainting heart,
And kiss thy lips, with a quivering start!
My hand—God! let me not think of it!
I have seen thee smile, I have felt thy breath;
Can I feel it now? O death, pale death!
Thy lethean cup, let me drink of it!
We'll make us a bed in the snow so deep;
The frost with a shroud will cover us;
The winds will lull us to dreamless sleep,
And the stars, in their far-off homes, will keep
Their beautiful night-watch over us.
Where is the father of that dead child,
That sleeps where the winds wail mournfully?
He left the woman his love beguiled—
Is the monster loathed, contemned, reviled?
Does the world regard him scornfully?
He is revelling now where the lamps are bright,
Where the hours go by in a festive flight,
And the gleeful song rings merrily.
They wish him joy on his bridal night,
And warm, young hearts beat cheerily.
The bride is a creature of love and youth,
With an eye of light and a lip of truth,
And a fair form moulded slenderly;
Her heart is a fountain of kindly ruth,
That flows for the suffering tenderly.
Oh, little she dreams that a wretch defamed,
Deceived, dishonoured, betrayed, ashamed,
By the strength of the bridegroom's oath once claimed
The love she is fondly cherishing.
For he is a model of manly grace,
With the sounding name of a noble race:
He has power, and fame, and fair, broad land,
And there is no blood on his jewelled hand
To tell of the lost one perishing.
Where censers breathe and jewels shine,
They pledge him now in the rich, red wine;
But never by token, or word, or sign,
Allude to his victim's history.
They fill the cup to the sparkling brim,
With life and pleasure and fame for him.
The future is bright; let the past be dim,
And wrapped in a fearful mystery.
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