Avis

I may not rightly call thy name, -     Alas! thy forehead never knew     The kiss that happier children claim,     Nor glistened with baptismal dew.     Daughter of want and wrong and woe,     I saw thee with thy sister-band,     Snatched from the whirlpool's narrowing flow     By Mercy's strong yet trembling hand.     "Avis!" - With Saxon eye and cheek,     At once a woman and a child,     The saint uncrowned I came to seek     Drew near to greet us, - spoke, and smiled.     God gave that sweet sad smile she wore     All wrong to shame, all souls to win, -     A heavenly sunbeam sent before     Her footsteps through a world of sin.     "And who is Avis?" - Hear the tale     The calm-voiced matrons gravely tell, -     The story known through all the vale     Where Avis and her sisters dwell.     With the lost children running wild,     Strayed from the hand of human care,     They find one little refuse child     Left helpless in its poisoned lair.     The primal mark is on her face, -     The chattel-stamp, - the pariah-stain     That follows still her hunted race, -     The curse without the crime of Cain.     How shall our smooth-turned phrase relate     The little suffering outcast's ail?     Not Lazarus at the rich man's gate     So turned the rose-wreathed revellers pale.     Ah, veil the living death from sight     That wounds our beauty-loving eye!     The children turn in selfish fright,     The white-lipped nurses hurry by.     Take her, dread Angel! Break in love     This bruised reed and make it thine! -     No voice descended from above,     But Avis answered, "She is mine."     The task that dainty menials spurn     The fair young girl has made her own;     Her heart shall teach, her hand shall learn     The toils, the duties yet unknown.     So Love and Death in lingering strife     Stand face to face from day to day,     Still battling for the spoil of Life     While the slow seasons creep away.     Love conquers Death; the prize is won;     See to her joyous bosom pressed     The dusky daughter of the sun, -     The bronze against the marble breast!     Her task is done; no voice divine     Has crowned her deeds with saintly fame.     No eye can see the aureole shine     That rings her brow with heavenly flame.     Yet what has holy page more sweet,     Or what had woman's love more fair,     When Mary clasped her Saviour's feet     With flowing eyes and streaming hair?     Meek child of sorrow, walk unknown,     The Angel of that earthly throng,     And let thine image live alone     To hallow this unstudied song!