Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold :: :: University of Virginia Library

Now the pick of the Whitechapel flowers
Here are faithfully drawn,
As they bloom in Tartarean bowers,
Where none ever sees Dawn;
Here the cream of the loafers and laggards,
And the corner boys, bullies and blackguards,
With the true slummy taint,
In their own heathen paint,
Is portrayed by the hand of affection
And the heart that knows well,
They could move earth as hell—
If they had but the proper direction.

544

We have seen living corpses laid bare,
Evil heart, evil head,
And the wedding of crime and of care
At the feast of the dead;
With the tares for the fire in their faggots
And the horrible thoughts that (like maggots,
Creeping out, creeping in)
Swarm in natures of sin,
And spread poison wherever they ravage;
Yet a glimmer of light
In the ugliest night,
And the gem in the toad and the savage.

Give the scoundrel a song or a sword,
And a purpose in life,
He will make as no velveted lord
Into history strife;
Do not pauperise, pet him or libel,
Only arm him with prayer and Bible
And a healthier stake,
And his soul will awake;
Rigid bonds of police can but smother
The bright angel that sleeps,
In those sinister deeps—
What he wants is the hand of a brother.

Aye, the drab, all fine feathers, and brass,
Without home, without name,
And despised by her kin and her class
In her shadow and shame—
Though an outcast, a leper, a harlot,
With her sins beyond measure as scarlet
That with pestilence burn—
May repent and return;
If her infamy now be a blister,
Yet, as flame to the skies
She shall shine and arise—
What she wants is the heart of a sister.