THE WOMAN WHO FALLS

Translated from Victor Hugo by Sir Tollemache Sinclair. A fallen woman, ne'er insult — grief her benumbs. Ah ! who knows 'neath what burden the poor soul succumbs, Whoe'er can count the days when hunger's pangs her urged. When through fell woe their life from virtue's path diverged, Which of us some of these lost women has not seen To virtue cling with hands tenacious, ah ! so lean. As gleams appear on some leaves of a branch quite frail, A tiny raindrop where the sun shines through the vale On the tree which one shakes, which tremblingly resists, A pearl e'er it falls down, and then of mud consists. The fault is chiefly ours, rich man 'tis thine, — thy gold This mud holds water pure though partly mixed with mould, That this small drop of water may be free from dust, And pearl-like shine again in splendour most august, It only needs (all things revive in time by light) That it a sun's ray feels, one gleam of love that's bright.