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.