 | Poems, Ballads and Bucolics |  |
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DEATH THE BEFRIENDER.
A Ballad of the People's Palace.
“Rabbi Jehudah hath said,
The Messiah which was for to come
Is with us, but waits to be known,
Hid in His mother's home
Till the sown appear unsown,
And the travailing earth is afraid.
The Messiah which was for to come
Is with us, but waits to be known,
Hid in His mother's home
Till the sown appear unsown,
And the travailing earth is afraid.
“Hath not the prophet written
That the great Prince—He who shall stand
For the people—cannot arise
Till trouble perplex the land,
And the world be full of cries,
And the powers of Heaven be smitten?
That the great Prince—He who shall stand
For the people—cannot arise
Till trouble perplex the land,
And the world be full of cries,
And the powers of Heaven be smitten?
“Did not the Carpenter's Son
Tell the beginnings of sorrow
Before the Day of the Lord,
New wars heard on the morrow,
Earthquake, famine, and sword,
And Love as cold as a stone?
Tell the beginnings of sorrow
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New wars heard on the morrow,
Earthquake, famine, and sword,
And Love as cold as a stone?
“Yea, the earth has quaked, like a moon
The day-star glimmers o'erhead,
And suns! men make them for night,
The murderers hack the dead,
The streets flame fiercely alight,
The Messiah must sure come soon!
The day-star glimmers o'erhead,
And suns! men make them for night,
The murderers hack the dead,
The streets flame fiercely alight,
The Messiah must sure come soon!
“Hath not one sign been seen,
How the wells are stopped and dry—
Wells of the heart of pity—
Here where our children ply
Their needles, and curse the city
That swears by the Nazarene?
How the wells are stopped and dry—
Wells of the heart of pity—
Here where our children ply
Their needles, and curse the city
That swears by the Nazarene?
“Age stands in the presence of prime,
The son dishonours the sire,
True wisdom is gall and hate,
The poor who wander for hire
Find none compassionate.
This most betokens the time.”
The son dishonours the sire,
True wisdom is gall and hate,
The poor who wander for hire
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This most betokens the time.”
So half in wrath and half in grief
Old Moses muttered at my side,—
I bound on errand of relief,
He busy with the wares he cried.
Old Moses muttered at my side,—
I bound on errand of relief,
He busy with the wares he cried.
With hopeless eyes and jaded face
The weary hundreds passed and passed;
Some found last night no sleeping place,
And some to-day would seek their last.
The weary hundreds passed and passed;
Some found last night no sleeping place,
And some to-day would seek their last.
Down the long miles of loveless street
The dismal houses stared forlorn,
A hay cart rolling by breathed sweet,—
All else was sickly London morn.
The dismal houses stared forlorn,
A hay cart rolling by breathed sweet,—
All else was sickly London morn.
Now here, now there, with gleaming cross,
High lifted o'er the flock unfed,
A towery temple seemed to toss
Its passionless defiant head.
High lifted o'er the flock unfed,
A towery temple seemed to toss
Its passionless defiant head.
Then on our left with purple dome,
With ample stair and wide-roofed hall,
The poorest people's Palace-home
Sprang up, with looks of love for all.
With ample stair and wide-roofed hall,
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Sprang up, with looks of love for all.
Slow entering in the royal place,
Where sits the Queen above the door,
One went with sorrow on his face,
And pain and patience, wan and poor.
Where sits the Queen above the door,
One went with sorrow on his face,
And pain and patience, wan and poor.
His hairs were white, but not with sin,
In decent black the man was dressed,
But, ah! his coat, thread-worn and thin,
Hung loose about a withered breast.
In decent black the man was dressed,
But, ah! his coat, thread-worn and thin,
Hung loose about a withered breast.
Too proud he seemed for such a plight,
But hunger glittered in his eyes,
Where caverned deep, I saw the light
That burns before the last lamp dies.
But hunger glittered in his eyes,
Where caverned deep, I saw the light
That burns before the last lamp dies.
I asked his state and whence he came:
“I once had friends,” he made reply,
“On Lincoln's wold they know my name,
I could not beg, but I can die.
“I once had friends,” he made reply,
“On Lincoln's wold they know my name,
I could not beg, but I can die.
“My wife beside our child was laid,
I dared not pass the churchyard gate,
My door was locked, my last debt paid,
I wandered off disconsolate.
I dared not pass the churchyard gate,
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I wandered off disconsolate.
“I left the golden breadths of corn,
The whirling mills, the fruitful fen,
They loved me well where I was born,
None knew me in this maze of men.
The whirling mills, the fruitful fen,
They loved me well where I was born,
None knew me in this maze of men.
“I craved employ, with no avail,”—
And here his voice grew hoarse and low,—
“They looked me o'er, they heard my tale,
They bade me to the workhouse go.
And here his voice grew hoarse and low,—
“They looked me o'er, they heard my tale,
They bade me to the workhouse go.
“I asked it not—one gave me bread,
A pictured paper wrapped it round;
There of the People's Hall I read,
And hither faint my way was found.
A pictured paper wrapped it round;
There of the People's Hall I read,
And hither faint my way was found.
“Oh, bitter quest, to prove in vain!
Books feed, but are not body's food!
But now, well past my hunger's pain,
The right of resting here is good.
Books feed, but are not body's food!
But now, well past my hunger's pain,
The right of resting here is good.
“This gorgeous roof of royal span,
This golden gallery's purple dome,
At least have made a dying man
Feel love has still on earth a home.”
This golden gallery's purple dome,
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Feel love has still on earth a home.”
He spake, and swooning smote the floor,
His face showed where his soul had flown;
Dead, in the Palace of the Poor,
In Christian England's wealthiest town!
His face showed where his soul had flown;
Dead, in the Palace of the Poor,
In Christian England's wealthiest town!
Then half in wrath and half in grief
Old Moses muttered at my side—
“The poorest poor shall find relief,
Messiah can no longer hide!”
Old Moses muttered at my side—
“The poorest poor shall find relief,
Messiah can no longer hide!”
“A little before 2 o'clock on the afternoon of Wednesday the 17th, a poorly but respectably dressed old man, cleanly in appearance, and with well blacked shoes, staggered into the premises of the People's Palace, dying of starvation. Too weak to coherently explain his condition, he was led into the office, and supplied by the clerks there in attendance with a basin of soup and some bread, which, however, his famished stomach refused to retain for a moment. He was then placed in a cab and conveyed to the London Hospital, where he lingered for about an hour and died, the coroner's jury subsequently returning a verdict of ‘Death from starvation.’”—The Times, Oct. 27, 1888. Subsequent inquiry elicited the fact that he was a Lincolnshire man, a widower, who had left his home for London in search of work, and had failed to find it.
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