O better at rest where the crooning dove May sing requiem o'er thy bed, Sweet Robin aflame with love's sign on his breast With quick light footstep tread; While over the sod the Birds of God Their guardian feathers outspread! Too womanly sweet, too womanly frail, Alone in thy faith and thy need; In the homeless home, in the poisonous air Of spite and libel and greed; Mid perfidy's net thy pathway is set, And thy feet in the pitfalls bleed. --O lightnings, not lightnings of Heaven, that flare Through the desolate House in the Field! Craft that the Fiend had envied in vain; Till the terrible Day unreveal'd,-- Till the Angels rejoice at the Verdict-voice, And Mary's pardon is seal'd! As a bird from the mesh of the fowler freed With wild wing shatters the air, From shelter to shelter, betray'd, she flees, Or lured to some treacherous lair, And the vulture-cry of the enemy nigh, And the heavens dark with despair! Bright lily of France, by the storm stricken low, A sunbeam thou seest through the shade Where Order and Peace are throned 'neath the smile Of a royal sisterly Maid:-- For hope in the breast of the girl has her nest, Ever trusting, and ever betray'd. 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.