Thirteen Years Ago
BEGGAR-GIRL .
Thirteen years ago, mother,
A little child had you:
Its limbs were light; its voice was soft;
Its eyes were — oh, so blue!
It was your last, your dearest;
And you said, when it was born,
It cheered away your widowhood,
And made you unforlorn.
Thirteen years ago, mother,
You loved that little child;
Although its temper wayward was,
And its will so strong and wild:
You likened it to the free bird
That flies to the woods to sing,
To the river fair, the unfettered air,
And many a pretty thing.
Thirteen years ago, mother,
The world was in its youth:
There was no past: and the all to come
Was Hope, and Love, and Truth:
The dawn came dancing onwards,
The day was ne'er too long;
And every night had a fairy sight,
And every voice a song.
Thirteen years ago, mother,
Your child was an infant small;
But she grew, and budded, and bloomed at last,
Like the rose on your garden wall:
Ah! the rose that you loved was trod on,
Your child was lost in shame;
And never since hath she met your smile
And never heard your name!
WIDOW .
Be dumb, thou gipsy slanderer;
What is my child to thee?
What are my troubles — what my joys?
Here, take these pence and flee!
If thou wilt frame a story,
Which telleth of me or mine,
Go, say you found me singing, girl,
In the merry sun-shine.
BEGGAR GIRL .
Thirteen years ago, mother,
The sun shone on your wall:
He shineth now through the winter's mist;
Or he shineth not at all.
You laughed then, and your little one
Ran round with merry feet;
To-day you hide your eyes in tears;
And I — am in the street!
WIDOW .
Ah, God! — what frightful spasm
Runs piercing through my heart!
It cannot be my bright one,
So pale — so worn: — Depart,
Depart — yet, no; come hither!
Here, — hide thee in my breast!
I see thee again — again! and I
Am once more with the bless'd!
BEGGAR GIRL .
Ay, — gaze! — 'Tis I, indeed, mother;
Your loved, — your lost, — your child!
The rest of the bad world scorn me,
As a creature all defiled;
But you — you 'll take me home, mother!
And I — though the grave seems nigh,
I 'll bear up still; and, for your sake,
I 'll struggle — not to die!
Thirteen years ago, mother,
A little child had you:
Its limbs were light; its voice was soft;
Its eyes were — oh, so blue!
It was your last, your dearest;
And you said, when it was born,
It cheered away your widowhood,
And made you unforlorn.
Thirteen years ago, mother,
You loved that little child;
Although its temper wayward was,
And its will so strong and wild:
You likened it to the free bird
That flies to the woods to sing,
To the river fair, the unfettered air,
And many a pretty thing.
Thirteen years ago, mother,
The world was in its youth:
There was no past: and the all to come
Was Hope, and Love, and Truth:
The dawn came dancing onwards,
The day was ne'er too long;
And every night had a fairy sight,
And every voice a song.
Thirteen years ago, mother,
Your child was an infant small;
But she grew, and budded, and bloomed at last,
Like the rose on your garden wall:
Ah! the rose that you loved was trod on,
Your child was lost in shame;
And never since hath she met your smile
And never heard your name!
WIDOW .
Be dumb, thou gipsy slanderer;
What is my child to thee?
What are my troubles — what my joys?
Here, take these pence and flee!
If thou wilt frame a story,
Which telleth of me or mine,
Go, say you found me singing, girl,
In the merry sun-shine.
BEGGAR GIRL .
Thirteen years ago, mother,
The sun shone on your wall:
He shineth now through the winter's mist;
Or he shineth not at all.
You laughed then, and your little one
Ran round with merry feet;
To-day you hide your eyes in tears;
And I — am in the street!
WIDOW .
Ah, God! — what frightful spasm
Runs piercing through my heart!
It cannot be my bright one,
So pale — so worn: — Depart,
Depart — yet, no; come hither!
Here, — hide thee in my breast!
I see thee again — again! and I
Am once more with the bless'd!
BEGGAR GIRL .
Ay, — gaze! — 'Tis I, indeed, mother;
Your loved, — your lost, — your child!
The rest of the bad world scorn me,
As a creature all defiled;
But you — you 'll take me home, mother!
And I — though the grave seems nigh,
I 'll bear up still; and, for your sake,
I 'll struggle — not to die!
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