No More Learning

REYNOLDS.





INSULT NOT THE FALLEN.

_("Oh! n'insultez jamais une femme qui tombe. ")_

[XIV. , Sept. 6, 1835. ]


I tell you, hush! no word of sneering scorn--
True, fallen; but God knows how deep her sorrow.
Poor girl! too many like her only born
To love one day--to sin--and die the morrow.
What know you of her struggles or her grief?
Or what wild storms of want and woe and pain
Tore down her soul from honor? As a leaf
From autumn branches, or a drop of rain
That hung in frailest splendor from a bough--
Bright, glistening in the sunlight of God's day--
So had she clung to virtue once. But now--
See Heaven's clear pearl polluted with earth's clay!
The sin is yours--with your accursed gold--
Man's wealth is master--woman's soul the slave!
Some purest water still the mire may hold.
Is there no hope for her--no power to save?
Yea, once again to draw up from the clay
The fallen raindrop, till it shine above,
Or save a fallen soul, needs but one ray
Of Heaven's sunshine, or of human love.

W. C. K. WILDE.





MORNING.

_("L'aurore s'allume. ")_

[XX. a, December, 1834. ]


Morning glances hither,
Now the shade is past;
Dream and fog fly thither
Where Night goes at last;
Open eyes and roses
As the darkness closes;
And the sound that grows is
Nature walking fast.

Murmuring all and singing,
Hark! the news is stirred,
Roof and creepers clinging,
Smoke and nest of bird;
Winds to oak-trees bear it,
Streams and fountains hear it,
Every breath and spirit
As a voice is heard.

All takes up its story,
Child resumes his play,
Hearth its ruddy glory,
Lute its lifted lay.