Poems (Curwen)/Forsaken

by Annie Isabel Curwen

For works with similar titles, see Forsaken.

Forsaken

An old man stands at the Workhouse gate,
 Gazing wistfully down the road;
Cruel indeed was the hand of fate,
 When it led him into that abode,
Although kind hearts have tried to make
His lot less hard, for "old times sake."

What is he thinking of? as he stands,
 Silently, wistfully, gazing there,
Clutching the bars with his thin worn hands,
 While the rough wind ruffles his silver hair.
Is it of days and years that have fled?
Sadly, slowly, he shakes his head.

Is it of wisdom that came too late,
 When means were gone, and hearts grew cold?
Or the shame he felt when the Workhouse gate
 Closed on the skipper once brave and bold?
Is it of voyages over the seas
He is dreaming now? No, none of these.

Is it that grave in the churchyard still,
 With its gleaming headstone of marble white,
That has caused those dim old eyes to fill
 With the waters of bitterness to-night?
Is it for her those tears are shed?
Again the old man shakes his head.

"I was only a derelict," quoth he,
 "Left to the mercy of wind and tide,
Drifting helpless upon life's sea,
 With never a friendly hand to guide,
Till driven by the winds of adversity
Into this haven of charity.

I have erred and strayed as others have done,
 Sinned and suffered, repented too late;
And Nemesis, in the form of my son,
 Drove me here to the Workhouse gate.
Old, forsaken, to die alone;
'O, Absalom, my son! my son!'"