Fierce blows the gale and cold,
Loudly the windows
[27] rattle;
Why, the stars seemed never half so bright.
Hark!
[28] ’Twas a bell that tolled—
There, again! must I battle
Through another dreadful winter night?
Better by far to die.
Who
[29] in this mighty city
Wastes a thought on such a wretched life?
Who heeds my weary sigh?
Who sheds a tear in pity?
All alone I wage
[30] the bitter strife.
Bright gleams yon chandelier,
[31]Gay sound the reckless voices;
And how tempting warm the red grate glows!
No!
[32] rather perish here—
Ah, no—my soul rejoices,
[33]For I triumph spite of all my woes.
Now, that I’ve made my vow,
Who
[34] comes to help me keep it?
Are the saints that preach asleep or dead?
Ripe is the harvest now,
Yet comes there none to reap it.
Not a cent!
[35] no home; no crust of bread.
Fie,
[36] upon hearts so cold!
Not one will deign to aid me;
And my own sex turn
[37] me off with scorn;
Sneer at me; call me bold;
Taunt me, and then upbraid me—
O, my God,
[38] how can I wait till morn?
Mother, is that you
[39] there?
Surely,
[40] I must be dreaming—
Do not leave me, mother;
[41] take me home!
Oh, how keen
[42] bites the air!
Yonder
[43] the dawn is gleaming.
It is I, your child: Oh, mother,
[44] come!
Sleepy, indeed, am I—
Wait till I kneel
[45] down, mother—
Now
[46] I lay me down to sleep—keep off—
[47]Help! help! help! I shall die—
Give me some air—I smother!
I am saved!
[48] Now let the cold world scoff.
* * * * *
Fierce blows the gale and cold,
Loudly the windows
[49] rattle,
And the stars are paling
[50] out with fright:
Oh, ’tis a tale oft told:
Done is the hard-fought battle—
And a weary soul has said good-night.