Alfred H. Miles, ed. Women Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.
By A Ballad of VictoryDollie Radford (18581920)
W
With tattered cloak, and empty hands,
She came into the market place,
A traveller from many lands.
Where people thronged in eager quest,
She paused awhile, with patient eyes,
And begged a little space for rest.
And where the rarest fruits were sent
From earth’s abundant store that day,
She turned and smiled in her content.
Where no exultant voice was heard,
Beside the barren basket, there
She stayed to say her sweetest word.
Drawn by the magic of her speech,
To learn the music of her name,
And whose the country she would reach.
Until her eyes were full of tears,
She said, “My way is fair and good,
And good my service to the years.”
To ease the sadness at her heart
She murmured, “You can give me nought
But space to rest, ere I depart.”
The women begged her love again,
She answered, “In these bounteous days
I may not let my love remain.”
And put their hands about her face,
She sighed, “There is so much to share,
I well might bide a little space.”
Or up the sky the evening stole,
She took the lonely way she knew,
And journeyed onward to her goal.
From all their choice of fair and sweet.
And as she turned they saw how bare
And bruisèd were her pilgrim feet.
As she went forward on her quest,
They saw the big wounds, deep and old,
The cruel scars upon her breast.
How they would cure her pain, to dwell
With them awhile; she did but turn
And wave her smiling last farewell.
And said, “I do not know her name,
Nor whose the land to which she goes,
But well the roads by which she came.
Beyond the town’s protecting wall,
Where travellers may faint and die,
And no one hearken to their call.
Worn ever deeper night and day,
By toiling feet, and tears that flow
For some sweet flower to mark the way.
Through many a deep and dark ravine
Where long ago it was decreed
Nor sun nor moonlight should be seen.
And through the winds and blinding showers,
Among the mist-bound silences
And through the cold despairing hours.
Ah me, I do not know her name,
Nor whose the bidding she fulfils,
But well the roads by which she came.”
Had watched the people come and go,
With clearer eyes and wiser heart,
And cried, “Her face and name I know.
The starless plains she must ascend,
And well the darkness of the night,
In which her pilgrimage shall end.
Than travail past or yet to be,
She presses to her hidden goal,
A crownless, unknown Victory.”