University of Virginia Library


9

THE ALLEY.

How unlike your careful faces,
Lank and dark of city lane,
To the buxom country graces
Flushed with air and washed with rain!
Harmony with nature keeping,
Like a natural growth is seen
Their white cots, like snowdrops peeping
From amidst their swathes of green.
Finches, linnets, hearty thrushes,
Build and sing upon the boughs;
Flower and fruit make noontide luscious,
Mingling with the breath of cows.

12

In their brook-divided meadows
Blythe they ted the new-mown hay;
And the violet starry shadows
Fold in sleep their summer's day.
Your homes are but live interments
Down in narrow, noisome nooks,
Under shade of hanging garments,
By the side of filthy brooks.
Pennyworths of sunshine dully
Light green patches, not of grass;
Dust and smoke the close air sully,
Night brings nauseous stars of gas.
Other than the gay brown tinting
Of the sun on rustic cheek,
Shows your early wrinkles' printing
Sallowed in the smoky reek.
You have some few shrivelled flowers,
Moping feathered slaves a few;—
Are your feelings and your powers
Thus debased and saddened too?

13

Yielded we to gloom and mourning,
Here indeed were ample scope.
Yet in this faint natural yearning
Comes, I feel, a breath of hope.
Heaven's own stars, too, pale and quiet,
Looking with compassion down
O'er the city's smoke and riot,
Even this poor alley crown.
Could we turn your gaze dejected
To those truths as high and bright,
Coping life for eyes erected,
Even here not vanished quite,—
Simple soon as mountain valley,
Vice no more a nest would find
In the shelter of your alley;
Nor would Filth remain behind.