Profit And Loss

Each day a new sword flashes in the van;
Another leader, brave to do or die,
Comes forth, full- furnished for the strife whereby
He gains his growth and stature as a man.
Each day our world, that under the black ban
Of ignorant custom for so long did lie,
Grows bright and brighter, like a clearing sky,
More good and lovely in its wondrous plan.

Yet oh! how few the saved, how small the gain,
How poor the profit as against the cost —
The waste of life, divinely vast and fair,
Potential in starved soul and unfed brain —
The powers that might have been and might be — lost
Only for want of common food and air!

poem by Ada Cambridge
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A Street Riot

Poor, hapless souls! at whom we stand aghast,
As at invading armies sweeping by —
As strange to haggard face and desperate cry —
Did we not know the worm must turn at last?
Poor, hungry men, with hungry children cast
Upon the wintry streets to thieve or die —
Suffering your wants and woes so silently -
Patient so long — is all your patience past?

Are there no ears to hear this warning call?
Are there no eyes to see this portent dread?
Must brute force rise and social order fall,
Ere these starved millions can be clothed and fed?
Justice be judge. Let future history say
Which are the greatest criminals to- day.

poem by Ada Cambridge
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London

The gorgeous stream of England's wealth goes by,
Mixed with the mud and refuse, as of old —
The hungry, homeless, naked, sick and cold;
Want mocked by waste and greedy luxury.
There, in their downy carriage- cushions, lie
Proud women whose fair bodies have been sold
And bought for coronet or merchant gold —
For whose base splendours envious maidens sigh.

Some day the social ban will fall on them —
On wanton rich who taunt their starving kin;
Some day the social judgment will condemn
These “wedded harlots” in their shame and sin.
A juster world shall separate them then
From all pure women and all honoured men.

poem by Ada Cambridge
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Responsibility

Why are our ideals hid from hostile eyes
As boys in school hide toys from master's view?
Let them be real as we believe them true —
Real as our chartered laws and liberties.
All precious rights that we possess and prize
Were ideals once, unshaped, unripe, and new,
The wild delusions of the crack- brained few,
The trifles mocked at by the worldly- wise.

Some must be first; and every coward blights
His brother's hope, and spreading Truth arrests;
While every brave man helps the world, and lights
The flame of courage in a thousand breasts.
So let us bear our meed of vulgar scorn,
And wait the judgment of the years unborn.

poem by Ada Cambridge
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Outcast

Perchance for dear Life's sake - and life is sweet -
When work had failed and roads were deep in snow,
And this meant food and fire, she fell so low -
That painted creature of the midnight street.
Perchance that other, with the shoeless feet,
Was Nature's victim, too untaught to know
That all live buds are not allowed to blow -
Too starved and passion-blind to be discreet.

And their accuser? She within the fold
That walks in light, bejewelled and belaced,
Who in cold blood, and not for love or need,
Sold the white flower of womanhood for gold;
The wedded harlot, rich and undisgraced,
The viler prostitute in mind and deed.

poem by Ada Cambridge
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Possibilities

There are who fear the loosing of the knot
That ties our labouring brother to the oar.
Release him, say they, and he will not soar;
Full- fed and idle, he will fall and rot.
Give him his share — let sharp need scourge him not —
Let cruel spur of hunger prick no more,
But all have bounty of the rich world's store —
And wreck and ruin is our certain lot!

But ease the toil- worn arm, the anxious brain,
And Reason, set more firmly on her throne,
Should guide more truly the enfranchised will.
Though want depart, divine desires remain;
Man, born of God, lives not by bread alone,
And realms of Knowledge are to conquer still.

poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Physical Conscience

The moral conscience — court of last appeal —
Our word of God — our Heaven- sent light and guide —
From what high aims it lures our steps aside!
To what immoral deeds it sets its seal!
That beacon lamp has lost its sacred fire;
That pilot- guide, compelling wind and wave,
By slow, blind process, has become the slave
Of all- compelling custom and desire.

Not so the conscience of the body. This,
Untamed and true, still speaks in voice and face,
In cold lips stiffened to the loveless kiss,
In shamed limbs shrinking from unloved embrace,
In love- born passion, that no laws compel,
Nor gold can purchase, nor ambition sell.

poem by Ada Cambridge
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Fallen

For want of bread to eat and clothes to wear —
Because work failed and streets were deep in snow,
And this meant food and fire — she fell so low,
Sinning for dear life's sake, in sheer despair.
Or, because life was else so bald and bare,
The natural woman in her craved to know
The warmth of passion — as pale buds to blow
And feel the noonday sun and fertile air.

And who condemns? She who, for vulgar gain
And in cold blood, and not for love or need,
Has sold her body to more vile disgrace —
The prosperous matron, with her comely face —
Wife by the law, but prostitute in deed,
In whose gross wedlock womanhood is slain.

poem by Ada Cambridge
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Seeking

Bright eyes, sweet lips, with sudden fevers fill
My strong blood, running wildly, as it must;
But lips and eyes too soon beget distrust.
A soft touch sends a momentary thrill
Through sense unsubservient to the will;
But warm caresses leave a dim disgust;
Like Dead- Sea apples, kisses turn to dust.
I kiss; I feast; but I am hungry still.

O, where is She — that straight and upright soul —
True friend, true mate, true woman — where is She?
True heart — as true as needle to the pole —
True to the truth, not only true to me —
Worth all I have to give — the best — the whole.
When shall these eyes Her unknown beauty see?

poem by Ada Cambridge
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Unstrung

My skies were blue, and my sun was bright,
And, with fingers tender and strong and light,
He woke up the music that slept before—
Echoing, echoing evermore!

By-and-by, my skies grew grey;—
No master-touch on the harp-strings lay,—
Dead silence cradled the notes divine:
His soul had wander'd away from mine.

Idly, o'er strange harps swept his hand,
Seeking for music more wild and grand.
He wearied at last of his fruitless quest,
And he came again to my harp for rest.

But the dust lay thick on the golden wires,
And they would not thrill to the old desires.
The chords, so broken and jarred with pain,
Could never be tender and sweet again.

poem by Ada Cambridge
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