The Mother’s Tragedy

THE WHORE IN HEAVEN 87 There is one end to this mistake of hers. Imagine terror and the father’s wrath, The mother’s dry-eyed scorn: the very curs Yelp as she weeps along the little path Toward the train: imagine how the years Mingled her wine-cup with the wanton’s tears, And leave her worn and weary and alone; A face of brass, a serpent’s heart of stone. She had one curse: against the cruel men That reared her without knowledge of mankind, Her parents and their leprous faith; but then She had one virtue: pitiful her mind Toward all gentle spirits: she had given Manya sister half a help to heaven; Many a sorrowing soul that knew her face Lovely behind her destiny’s disgrace. The stern Dissenter was a godly man, And robbed his master. Flying from his home, He reached the city, poor, without a plan To fill his belly. Wretched did he roam Begging through London. On a winter's night His daughter found him, frozen in the light Of some cold lamp: her wheels triumphant roll. She laughed with Hell, and cursed him from her soul. Then suddenly came pity. She commands The carriage to stay still. For nigh an hour She set her teeth and clenched her gauded hands. Alternate gusts her swaying soul devour.