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. Many I have to tend; to make my claim Some venture: we shall see." "I trust, good lady, that in a fair field, The case 'twixt you and tyranny will be tried," I said; then turning promptly I appealed To one who stood beside. She said, "Poor pay, and plenteous fines, and worse, Made me rebel amidst my mates' applause. To insubordination I'm averse, But have I not good cause? "We are cut off from hope in our hard place, Sweet factory? Ah, well, _our_ sweets are few. We strike for justice. Man might show some grace, I think, Sir; do not you?" Turning I saw, ranging a flowery pile, One sitting in an entry dark and cold; A girl with hectic cheeks, and hollow smile; Wired roses there she sold, Or strove to sell; but often on her ear The harrying voice of stern policedom struck, And chased her from her vantage, till a tear Fell at her "wretched luck." Again I saw a wan domestic drudge Scuttering across a smug suburban lawn; Tired with the nightly watch, the morning trudge, The toil at early dawn. And then a frail and thin-clad governess, Hurrying to daily misery through the rain. Toiling, with scanty food, and scanty dress, Long hours for little gain. Anon a spectral shop-girl creeping back To her dull garret-home through the chill night, Bowed, heart-sick, spirit-crushed, poor ill-paid hack Of harsh commercial might! These I beheld, the world's sad woman-throng, Work-ridden vassals of its Mammon-god, Their destiny to creep and drudge along, And kiss grief's chastening rod. And then I saw a spirit surface-fair, A Mænad-masked betrayer, base, impure, But with sin's glittering garb, and radiant air, Gay laugh, and golden lure. It smiled, it beckoned--whither? To the abyss! But of that throng how many may be drawn By the gay glamour and the siren kiss To where sin's soul-gulfs yawn? How many? No response my vision gave. Make answer, if ye may, ye lords of gain! Make answer, if ye know, ye chiders grave Of late revolt, and vain! Dream of _Fair_ Women? Nay, for work and want Mar maiden comeliness and matron grace. Let sober judgment, clear of gush and cant, The bitter problem face! * * * * *