The languid lift Of head from pillow tells us the good gift Of Sabbath rest is more than half in vain. Tired! Tired! In flesh, bone, brain, Heart, fancy, pulse, and nerve! Such is our doom who stand and serve The unrewarding public, thoughtless they Of slaves whose souls they slay! Oh, that long standing--standing--standing yet! With the flesh sick, the inmost soul a-fret, Pale, pulseless patiences, our very sex, That should be a protection, one more load To lade, and chafe, and vex. No tired ox urged to tramping by the goad Feels a more mutely-maddening weariness Than we white, black-garbed spectral girls who stand Stonily smiling on while ladies grand, Easily seated, idly turn and toss The samples; and our Watcher, 'neath the gloss Of courtly smugness glaring menace, stalks About us, creaking cruelty as he walks. Stand! Stand! Still stand! Clenched teeth and clutching hand, Swift blanching cheek, and twitching muscle, tell To those who know, what _we_ know all too well, Ignored by Fashion, coldly mocked by Trade. Are we not for the sacrifice arrayed In dainty vesture? Pretty, too, they say Male babblers, whom our sufferings and poor pay Might shock, could they but guess Trim figure and smart dress Cover and hide, from all but doctor-ken, Disease and threatening death. Oh! men, men, men! You bow, smile, flatter--aught but _understand_! Long hours lay lethal hand Upon our very vitals. Seats might save From an untimely grave, Hundreds of harried, inly anguished girls; _You_ see--their snow-girt throats and neatly-ordered curls! Out to the green fields? Nay, This all too fleeting day To rest is dedicate. But not the rest Of brightened spirit, and of lightened breast. The dull, dead, half-inanimate leaden crouch Of sheer exhaustion on this shabby couch Is all my week's repose. Read? But the tired eyes close, The book from nerveless fingers drops; Almost the slow heart stops. But the clock halts not on its restless round. Weariness shudders at the whirring sound, As the sharp strike declares Swift to its closing wears One more of those brief interludes from toil Which leave us still the labour-despot's spoil, Slaves of long hours and unrelaxing strain, Unstrengthened and unsolaced, soon again To tread the round, and lift the lengthening chain; _Stand_--till hysteria lays its hideous clutch On our girl-hearts, or epilepsy's touch Thrills through tired nerves and palsied brain. Again--again--again! _How long?_ Till Death, upon its kindly quest, Gives a true Day of Rest! * * * * * EASTER MANOEUVRES. [Illustration: BACCHUS ON A BICYCLE! (A "SAFETY" TOO!!) _This incident repeated itself to infinity from the East End to Hammersmith and back!!_] * * * * *