Poems. Volume 1

LONDON BY LAMPLIGHT

There stands a singer in the street,He has an audience motley and meet;Above him lowers the London night,And around the lamps are flaring bright.His minstrelsy may be unchaste—’Tis much unto that motley taste,And loud the laughter he provokesFrom those sad slaves of obscene jokes.But woe is many a passer byWho as he goes turns half an eye,To see the human form divineThus Circe-wise changed into swine!Make up the sum of either sexThat all our human hopes perplex,With those unhappy shapes that knowThe silent streets and pale cock-crow.And can I trace in such dull eyesOf fireside peace or country skies?And could those haggard cheeks presumeTo memories of a May-tide bloom?Those violated forms have beenThe pride of many a flowering green;And still the virgin bosom heavesWith daisy meads and dewy leaves.But stygian darkness reigns withinThe river of death from the founts of sin;And one prophetic water rollsIts gas-lit surface for their souls.I will not hide the tragic sight—Those drown’d black locks, those dead lips white,Will rise from out the slimy flood,And cry before God’s throne for blood!Those stiffened limbs, that swollen face,—Pollution’s last and best embrace,Will call, as such a picture can,For retribution upon man.Hark! how their feeble laughter rings,While still the ballad-monger sings,And flatters their unhappy breastsWith poisonous words and pungent jests.O how would every daisy blushTo see them ’mid that earthy crush!O dumb would be the evening thrush,And hoary look the hawthorn bush!The meadows of their infancyWould shrink from them, and every tree,And every little laughing spot,Would hush itself and know them not.Precursor to what black despairsWas that child’s face which once was theirs!And O to what a world of guileWas herald that young angel smile!That face which to a father’s eyeWas balm for all anxiety;That smile which to a mother’s heartWent swifter than the swallow’s dart!O happy homes! that still they knowAt intervals, with what a woeWould ye look on them, dim and strange,Suffering worse than winter change!And yet could I transplant them there,To breathe again the innocent airOf youth, and once more reconcileTheir outcast looks with nature’s smile;Could I but give them one clear dayOf this delicious loving May,Release their souls from anguish dark,And stand them underneath the lark;—I think that Nature would have powerTo graft again her blighted flowerUpon the broken stem, renewSome portion of its early hue;—The heavy flood of tears unlock,More precious than the Scriptured rock;At least instil a happier mood,And bring them back to womanhood.Alas! how many lost ones claimThis refuge from despair and shame!How many, longing for the light,Sink deeper in the abyss this night!O, crying sin!  O, blushing thought!Not only unto those that wroughtThe misery and deadly blight;But those that outcast them this night!O, agony of grief! for whoLess dainty than his race, will doSuch battle for their human right,

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.

1

First contributed to a MS. magazine, ‘The Monthly Observer,’ in the year 1849; first printed in Chambers’ Edinburgh Journal, July 7, 1849.