 | The silver bridge and other poems |  |
24
IN SMITHFIELD.
Here on the very spot where now I stand
Tracing on this gray stone the carvéd letters,
In other days a flame-crowned martyr band
Stood slowly burning in their red-hot fetters,
Tracing on this gray stone the carvéd letters,
In other days a flame-crowned martyr band
Stood slowly burning in their red-hot fetters,
Lapped by red tongues of flame, and choked with smoke,
Under this very sky that frowns and lowers;
Yet from the clouds no voice of thunder spoke,
Nor tender mercy fell in quenching showers.
Under this very sky that frowns and lowers;
Yet from the clouds no voice of thunder spoke,
Nor tender mercy fell in quenching showers.
And so they died; strong in the high belief
That faithful ages would repeat their story,
That God would recompense their anguish brief,
And crown their pain with everlasting glory.
That faithful ages would repeat their story,
That God would recompense their anguish brief,
And crown their pain with everlasting glory.
The times have changed: not now does bigotry
Heap funeral pyres in London's market-places,
Nor drag condemned enthusiasts out to die,
With dawning haloes round their pallid faces;
Heap funeral pyres in London's market-places,
Nor drag condemned enthusiasts out to die,
With dawning haloes round their pallid faces;
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No holy bishop stands, with fierce intent,
The smouldering fagots with his crosier turning,
And snuffs up, like a rose's breath, the scent
Of wicked human thews and sinews burning.
The smouldering fagots with his crosier turning,
And snuffs up, like a rose's breath, the scent
Of wicked human thews and sinews burning.
We say these cruel evils brought forth good,—
This age is more humane; nor is our boasting
A thing of mere conceit and hardihood,—
We starve our martyrs now, instead of roasting.
This age is more humane; nor is our boasting
A thing of mere conceit and hardihood,—
We starve our martyrs now, instead of roasting.
All up and down this grim and haunted square
They swarm, the martyrs of this age enlightened:
Children with feet and shoulders thin and bare;
Men with ignoble heads untimely whitened,
They swarm, the martyrs of this age enlightened:
Children with feet and shoulders thin and bare;
Men with ignoble heads untimely whitened,
And faces blear and old before their time;
Lost girls, who earn their bread by smiles and laughter
Shameless and false as those who buy their crime,—
Hating the present, dreading the hereafter;
Lost girls, who earn their bread by smiles and laughter
Shameless and false as those who buy their crime,—
Hating the present, dreading the hereafter;
Youths old in guilt before their middle age,
Schooled from their birth in words and deeds unholy;
And toil-bent women-slaves, whose scanty wage
Only enables them to starve more slowly;
Schooled from their birth in words and deeds unholy;
And toil-bent women-slaves, whose scanty wage
Only enables them to starve more slowly;
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Mothers, who once, perhaps, knew love and mirth,
When life was easier and their hearts were younger,
Now maddened by that dreariest sound on earth,—
The cry of babes who wail with cold and hunger.
When life was easier and their hearts were younger,
Now maddened by that dreariest sound on earth,—
The cry of babes who wail with cold and hunger.
No aureole gathers round these grimy brows,
No lofty faith upbears their load of trial,
No angel form above their torment bows;
But want, and sin, and shame, and grim denial
No lofty faith upbears their load of trial,
No angel form above their torment bows;
But want, and sin, and shame, and grim denial
Attend their rising up and lying down,
And make them cringe, and steal, and lie, and grovel;
They win no martyr's fame, nor palm, nor crown,
But die of vice and misery, in a hovel.
And make them cringe, and steal, and lie, and grovel;
They win no martyr's fame, nor palm, nor crown,
But die of vice and misery, in a hovel.
Ragged and hungry, comfortless and cold,
Shivering and purple in the wintry breezes,
Which would they choose, knew they the story old,
The age which burned, or this which starves and freezes?
Shivering and purple in the wintry breezes,
Which would they choose, knew they the story old,
The age which burned, or this which starves and freezes?
London, England.
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