THE VOICE OF THE HELPLESS.
By Carlotta Perry
I hear a wail from the woodland,
A cry from the forests dim,
A sound of woe from the sweet hedge-row,
From the willows and reeds that rim
The sedgy pools; from the meadow grass
I hear the fitful cry, alas! It drowns the throb of music,
The laughter of childhood sweet,
It seems to rise to the very skies,
As I walk the crowded street;
When I wait on God in the house of prayer,
I hear the sad wail even there. ’Tis the cry of the orphaned nestlings,
’Tis the wail of the bird that sings
His song of grace in the archer’s face,
’Tis the flutter of broken wings,
’Tis the voice of helplessness—the cry
Of many a woodland tragedy. O lovely, unthinking maiden,
The wing that adorns your hat
Has the radiance rare that God placed there,
But I see in place of that
A mockery, pitiful, deep, and sad,
Of all things happy, and gay, and glad! O mother, you clasp your darling
Close to your loving breast;
Think of that other, that tender mother,
Brooding upon her nest!
In the little chirp from the field and wood,
Does no sound touch your motherhood? That little dead bird on your bonnet,
Is it worth the cruel wrong?
The beauty you wear so proudly there
Is the price of a silenced song;
The humming-bird on your velvet dress
Mocks your womanly tenderness. I hear a cry from the woodland,
A voice from the forests dim,
A sound of woe from the sweet hedge-row,
From the willows and reeds that rim
The sedgy pool; from the meadow grass
I hear the pitiful sound, alas! Can you not hear it, my sister,
Above the heartless behest
Of fashion that stands, with cruel hand,
Despoiling the songful nest?
Above that voice have you never heard
The voice of the helpless, hunted bird?