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206

JANETTE'S HAIR.

JANETTE'S HAIR.-CHARLES G. HAlpine.

LOOSEN the snood that you wear, Janette,
Let me tangle a hand in your hair, my pet-

For the world for me had no daintier sight

Than your brown hair veiling your shoulders white,
As I tangled a hand in your hair, my pet.

It was brown with a golden gloss, Janette,

It was fine as the floss of the silk, my pet;

'Twas a beautiful mist falling down to your waist,
'Twas a thing to be braided, and jewelled, and kissed,
"Twas the loveliest hair in the world, my pet.

My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette,
It was sinewy, bristled, and brown, my pet,
But warmly and softly it loved to caress
Your round white neck, and your wealth of tress,
Your beautiful plenty of hair, my pet.

Your eyes had a swimming glory, Janette-
Revealing the old, dear story, my pet,

They were gray with the chastened tinge of the sky,
When the trout leaps quickest to snap the fly;
And they matched with your golden hair, my pet.

Your lips-but I have no words, Janette,
They were fresh as the twitter of birds, my pet,
When the spring is young and the roses are wet
With dew-drops in each red bosom set,

And they suited your gold-brown hair, my pet,

Oh, you tangled my life in your hair, Janette,
'Twas a silken and golden snare, my pet;
But so gentle the bondage, my soul did implore
The right to continue thy slave evermore
With my fingers enmeshed in your hair, my pet.

Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette,
With your lips, and your eyes, and your hair, my pet;

In the darkness of desolate years I moan,
And my tears fall bitterly over the stone
That covers your golden hair, my pet.

ON THE TOWN.

ON THE TOWN.-R. H. STODDARD.

HE lamps are lighted, the streets are full,

For, coming and going, like waves of the sea,

Thousands are out this beautiful night;

They jostle each other, but shrink from me. Men hurry by with a stealthy glance,

Women pass by with their eyes cast down, Even the children seem to know

The shameless girl of the town.

Hated and shunned, I walk the street,
Hunting,—for what? My prey, 'tis said;
I look at it though in a different light,
For this nightly shame is my daily bread ;-
My food, my shelter, the clothes I wear;
Only for this I might starve or drown;
The world has disowned me--what can I do,
But live and die on the town?

The world is cruel. It may be right

To crush the harlot, but grant it so, What made her the guilty thing she is?

For she was innocent once, you know. 'Twas love!--that terrible word tells all; She loved a man, and blindly believed His vows, his kisses, his crocodile tears— Of course, the fool was deceived.

What had I to gain by a moment's sin,

To weigh in the scale with my innocent years,

My womanly shame, my ruined name,

My father's curses, my mother's tears ?

The love of a man! It was something to give

Was it worth it? The price was a soul paid down. Did I get a soul-his soul-in exchange?

Behold me here on the town.

"Your guilt was heavy," the world will say,

"And heavy, heavy your doom must be;

207

208

ON THE TOWN.

For, to pity and pardon a woman's fall,

Is to set no value on chastity.

You undervalue the virgin's crown,

The spotless honor that makes her dear."
But I ought to know what the bauble is worth,
When the loss of it brings me here.

But, pity and pardon! Who are you,
To talk of pardon, pity, to me?
What I ask is justice, justice, Sir;

Let both be punished or both go free.

If it be in woman a dreadful thing,

What is it in man, now? Come, be just;
(Remember she falls through her love for him,
He, through his selfish lust!)

Tell me what is done to the wretch

Who tempts, and riots in woman's fall?
His father curses, and casts him off?

His friends forsake? He is scorned of all?

Not he; his judges are men like himself,

Or thoughtless women, who humor their whim; "Young blood," "wild oats," "better hush it up,' They soon forget it,—in him!

Even his mother, who ought to know
The woman-nature and how it is won,

Frames a thousand excuses for him,

Because, forsooth, the man is her son.

You have daughters, madam (he told me so),

Fair, innocent daughters," Woman, what then?"

Some mother may have a son like yours,

Bid them beware of men.

I saw his coach in the street to-day
Dashing along on the sunny side,
With a liveried driver on the box;
Lolling back in her listless pride,

ON THE TOWN.

The wife of his bosom took the air.

She was bought in the mart where hearts are sold; I gave myself away for his love,

She sold herself for his gold.

He lives, they say, in a princely way,

One dark night,

Flattered and feasted.
Some devil led me to pass his house;

. I saw the windows a blaze of light;
The music whirled in a maddening round;
I heard the fall of the dancers' feet;
Bitter, bitter, the thoughts I had
Standing there in the street.

Back to my gaudy den I went,
Marched to my room in grim despair,
Dried my eyes, painted my cheeks,

And fixed a flower or two in my hair.
Corks were popping, wine was flowing;
I seized a bumper and tossed it down;
One must do something to kill the time,
And fit one's self for the town.

I meet his boy in the park sometimes,
And my heart runs over toward the child;
A frank little fellow with fearless eyes,

He smiles at me as his father smiled

I hate the man, but I love the boy,

For I think what my own, had he lived, would be— Perhaps it is he come back from the dead—

To his father, alas, not me!

But I stand too long in the shadow here,
Let me out in the light again.

Now for insult, blows perhaps,

And, bitterer still, my own disdain !

I take my place in the crowded street,

Not like the simple women I see,—

You may

cheat them, men, as much as you please;

You wear no masks with me.

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210

ON THE TOWN.

I know ye! under your honeyed words
There lurks a serpent; your oaths are lies;
There's a lustful fire in your hungry hearts,
I see it flaming up in your eyes.

Cling to them, ladies, and shrink from me,
Or rail at my boldness. Well, have you
Madam, your husband knows me well!
Mother, I know your son!

But go your ways, and I'll go mine,
Call me opprobrious names if
you will;
The truth is bitter-think I have lied—
"A harlot?" Yes, but a woman still.
God said of old to a woman like me,

"Go, sin no more;" or your Bibles lie―
But you, you mangle his merciful words
To "Go and sin till you die!"

Die-the word has a pleasant sound,

The sweetest I've heard this many a year.
It seems to promise an end to pain,—
Anyway it will end it here.

Suppose I throw myself in the street?

done?

Before the horses could trample me down,
Some would-be friend might snatch me up,
And thrust me back on the town.

But look-the river! From where I stand
I see it, I almost hear it flow

Down on the dark and lonely pier

It is but a step-I can end my woe!

A plunge, a splash, and all will be o'er,

The death-black waters will drag me down;

God knows where! But no matter where,

So I am off the town.

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