Her weariness with shame and with surprise
    My spirit shocked:  she turning on my face
  The heavy glances of unrested eyes,
    Spoke mildly in her place.

  “I have long duties; ask thou not my name
    Some say I fret at a fair destiny. 
  Many I have to tend; to make my claim
    Some venture:  we shall see.”

  “I trust, good lady, that in a fair field,
    The case ’twixt you and tyranny will be tried,”
  I said; then turning promptly I appealed
    To one who stood beside.

  She said, “Poor pay, and plenteous fines, and worse,
    Made me rebel amidst my mates’ applause. 
  To insubordination I’m averse,
    But have I not good cause?

  “We are cut off from hope in our hard place,
    Sweet factory?  Ah, well, our sweets are few. 
  We strike for justice.  Man might show some grace,
    I think, Sir; do not you?”

  Turning I saw, ranging a flowery pile,
    One sitting in an entry dark and cold;
  A girl with hectic cheeks, and hollow smile;
    Wired roses there she sold,

  Or strove to sell; but often on her ear
    The harrying voice of stern policedom struck,
  And chased her from her vantage, till a tear
    Fell at her “wretched luck.”

  Again I saw a wan domestic drudge
    Scuttering across a smug suburban lawn;
  Tired with the nightly watch, the morning trudge,
    The toil at early dawn.

  And then a frail and thin-clad governess,
    Hurrying to daily misery through the rain. 
  Toiling, with scanty food, and scanty dress,
    Long hours for little gain.

  Anon a spectral shop-girl creeping back
    To her dull garret-home through the chill night,
  Bowed, heart-sick, spirit-crushed, poor ill-paid hack
    Of harsh commercial might!

  These I beheld, the world’s sad woman-throng,
    Work-ridden vassals of its Mammon-god,
  Their destiny to creep and drudge along,
    And kiss grief’s chastening rod.

  And then I saw a spirit surface-fair,
    A Maenad-masked betrayer, base, impure,
  But with sin’s glittering garb, and radiant air,
    Gay laugh, and golden lure.

  It smiled, it beckoned—­whither?  To the abyss! 
    But of that throng how many may be drawn
  By the gay glamour and the siren kiss
    To where sin’s soul-gulfs yawn?

  How many?  No response my vision gave. 
    Make answer, if ye may, ye lords of gain! 
  Make answer, if ye know, ye chiders grave
    Of late revolt, and vain!

  Dream of Fair Women?  Nay, for work and want
    Mar maiden comeliness and matron grace. 
  Let sober judgment, clear of gush and cant,
    The bitter problem face!

* * * * *

ERIN AVENGED.—­The Irish champions, HAMILTON, PIM, and STOKER, have won the “All-England” (it should be All-Irish) Tennis Championship, both Single and Double, beating the hitherto invincible Brothers RENSHAW, and other lesser Lights of the Lawn.  And now at Bisley the Irish Team have, for the third time in succession, won the Elcho Challenge Shield.  The old caveat will have to be changed into “No non-Irish need apply!”