 | Song and Story |  |
179
ON THE NEWPORT CLIFFS.
At either hand, as far as eye can trace,
Lined with palatial dwellings, loom these heights,
Having old ocean's glory of tints and lights
To murmur mellow rhythms against their base;
Or yet from many a porch of stately grace
Clear down to where the extreme cliff's verge affrights,
Having, through golden days and balmy nights,
Lawn after lawn to outroll its velvet space!
Lined with palatial dwellings, loom these heights,
Having old ocean's glory of tints and lights
To murmur mellow rhythms against their base;
Or yet from many a porch of stately grace
Clear down to where the extreme cliff's verge affrights,
Having, through golden days and balmy nights,
Lawn after lawn to outroll its velvet space!
Ah, cruelty of luxury! ... Dark for me,
Remembering, musing, all your splendor frowns,
Even here below this brilliant dome of sky!
For pierced with untold pity, I can but see
Wan mothers, pent in rooms of torrid towns,
Lean over gasping babes and watch them die!
Remembering, musing, all your splendor frowns,
Even here below this brilliant dome of sky!
For pierced with untold pity, I can but see
Wan mothers, pent in rooms of torrid towns,
Lean over gasping babes and watch them die!
Newport, July, 1882.
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