Helen Grey

Because one loves you, Helen Grey,Is that a reason you should pout,And like a March wind veer about,And frown, and say your shrewish say?Don't strain the cord until it snaps,Don't split the sound heart with your wedge,Don't cut your fingers with the edgeOf your keen wit; you may, perhaps.

Because you're handsome, Helen Grey,Is that a reason to be proud?Your eyes are bold, your laugh is loud,Your steps go mincing on their way;But so you miss that modest charmWhich is the surest charm of all:Take heed, you yet may trip and fall,And no man care to stretch his arm.

Stoop from your cold height, Helen Grey,Come down, and take a lowlier place;Come down, to fill it now with grace;Come down you must perforce some day:For years cannot be kept at bay,And fading years will make you old;Then in their turn will men seem cold,When you yourself are nipped and grey.

Here where I dwell I waste to skin and bone;The curse is come upon me, and I wasteIn penal torment powerless to atone.The curse is come on me, which makes no hasteAnd doth not tarry, crushing both the proudHard man and him the sinner double-faced.Look not upon me, for my soul is bowedWithin me, as my body in this mire;My soul crawls dumb-struck, sore-bested and cowed.As Sodom and Gomorrah scourged by fire,As Jericho before God's trumpet-peal,So we the elect ones perish in His ire.Vainly we gird on sackcloth, vainly kneelWith famished faces toward Jerusalem:His heart is shut against us not to feel,His ears against our cry He shutteth them,His hand He shorteneth that He will not save,His law is loud against us to condemn:And we, as unclean bodies in the graveInheriting corruption and the dark,Are outcast from His presence which we crave.Our Mercy hath departed from His Ark,Our Glory hath departed from His rest,Our Shield hath left us naked as a markUnto all pitiless eyes made manifest.Our very Father hath forsaken us,Our God hath cast us from Him: we oppressedUnto our foes are even marvellous,A hissing and a butt for pointing hands,Whilst God Almighty hunts and grinds us thus;For He hath scattered us in alien lands,Our priests, our princes, our anointed king,And bound us hand and foot with brazen bands.Here while I sit my painful heart takes wingHome to the home-land I must see no more,Where milk and honey flow, where waters springAnd fail not, where I dwelt in days of yoreUnder my fig-tree and my fruitful vine,There where my parents dwelt at ease before:Now strangers press the olives that are mine,Reap all the corners of my harvest-field,And make their fat hearts wanton with my wine;To them my trees, to them my garden yieldTheir sweets and spices and their tender green,O'er them in noontide heat outspread their shield.Yet these are they whose fathers had not beenHoused with my dogs, whom hip and thigh we smoteAnd with their blood washed their pollutions clean,Purging the land which spewed them from its throat;Their daughters took we for a pleasant prey,Choice tender ones on whom the fathers doat.Now they in turn have led our own away;Our daughters and our sisters and our wivesSore weeping as they weep who curse the day,To live, remote from help, dishonoured lives,Soothing their drunken masters with a song,Or dancing in their golden tinkling gyves:Accurst if they remember through the longEstrangement of their exile, twice accursedIf they forget and join the accursed throng.How doth my heart that is so wrung not burstWhen I remember that my way was plain,And that God's candle lit me at the first,Whilst now I grope in darkness, grope in vain,Desiring but to find Him Who is lost,To find Him once again, but once again.His wrath came on us to the uttermost,His covenanted and most righteous wrath:Yet this is He of Whom we made our boast,Who lit the Fiery Pillar in our path,Who swept the Red Sea dry before our feet,Who in His jealousy smote kings, and hathSworn once to David: One shall fill thy seatBorn of thy body, as the sun and moon'Stablished for aye in sovereignty complete.O Lord, remember David, and that soon.The Glory hath departed, Ichabod!Yet now, before our sun grow dark at noon,Before we come to nought beneath Thy rod,Before we go down quick into the pit,Remember us for good, O God, our God:--Thy Name will I remember, praising it,Though Thou forget me, though Thou hide Thy face,And blot me from the Book which Thou hast writ;Thy Name will I remember in my praiseAnd call to mind Thy faithfulness of old,Though as a weaver Thou cut off my days,And end me as a tale ends that is told.