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Title: The Lurking Foe
Author: Grant Balfour [
More Titles by Balfour]
Till early spring (too soon),
While David went to school, and learned well,
The widow bravely labored on 'mid frost
And snow and storm, thro' strain of overwork
And worse. Inhaled, mayhap, from matter bad,
Close-handled in her calling (who can trace
The lurking venom foe?) the wasting plague
Had found a cruel lodgment in her breast.
"One hope remains," the kind physician said--
Who made no charge for visits not a few--
"'Tis institutional treatment where the air
Is light and pure, where food is plentiful,
And rest abounds."
The parting wrench was sore.
The mother hid her grief and tears, and smiled,
But David wept without restraint. A farming
Couple sympathetic offered refuge
For awhile, and when he went away
(His kitten in a basket 'neath his arm),
His heart was heavy--for the sun was down,
The world was dark.
But five months' treatment free
Was great and good, and David's mother seemed
To be restored to health, for strength was there
And color beautiful. 'Twas not enough,
Tho' all that could be given, that other waiting
Sufferers might have a chance to live.
With rest at home the healing work begun
Would one day be complete.
Ye men of wealth,
And all that generous give, with all that halt,
Herein your golden opportunity
Doth lie. A home you have prepared for them
That leave the prison cell, and this is well.
But what awaits the convalescent widow
And the orphan, fighting off the wasting plague?
Suspicion--dread--a refuge craved for vainly
Here and there--a battle hopeless, lost.
Awake, awake! Oh, give the shelter sure
A child would give to any famished waif!
Oh, wake, compassion, wake!
When David, big
With joy, returned, the wind sang in the trees,
The flowers, red and white, a welcome smiled,
The cottage seemed to be a prince's home,
And mother in her loveliness a queen,
While in the mother's eyes her child appeared
As if a shepherd lad, he looked so strong,
So lithe, and ruddy. But the only flock
That David had consisted of a kitten,
Now a cat renowned of tiger-stripe
And fat. And once again the cottage-home
Gave foretaste of the other, deathless, pure,
And glad, for love was there.
With quenchless hope
The happy widow bravely bent her shoulders
To the yoke again. She had her boy
To live for, work for, love, and he would be
A man some day, and strong, when she would lean
On him as he had leaned on her. And yet
The yoke was heavy, and grew heavier
As vigour waned. In spite of hope and will
She craved for rest. Or even if the wage
Were better, labour could be lessened
And give more of rest.
[The end]
Grant Balfour's poem: Lurking Foe
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