Bob-Thin Or the poorhouse fugitive: By W. J. Linton: Illustrated by T. Sibson-- W. B. Scott-- E. Duncan-- W. J. Linton |
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THE LIFE AND ADVENTURE of BOB THIN:
A POLITICAL—PHILOSOPHICAL—HISTORICAL—BIOGRAPHICAL—ANECDOTICAL—ALLEGORICAL— PARENTHETICAL—PATHETICAL—PROPHETICAL—POETICAL—LOGICAL—METRICAL—AND MORAL NEW POOR—LAW TALE.
Men like not prosy tales: we'll try
How doggrel rhyme fits history.
How doggrel rhyme fits history.
Time was when every man was free
To manage his own cookery:
Whether he got it in the chase,
Or grew and eat it in same place.
This was old time, long ere the days
When “merrie England” bask'd in the blaze—
To manage his own cookery:
Whether he got it in the chase,
Or grew and eat it in same place.
This was old time, long ere the days
When “merrie England” bask'd in the blaze—
4
Now, blessings on her wrizled face!—
Of royal Betty's summer glory:
Those were the days to come before ye.
And here, though it delay our story,
We must indulge our loyal pen
With a laudatory paren-
Thesis, to tell of Betty's goodness,
Trusting to be excused our rudeness.
Of royal Betty's summer glory:
Those were the days to come before ye.
And here, though it delay our story,
We must indulge our loyal pen
With a laudatory paren-
Thesis, to tell of Betty's goodness,
Trusting to be excused our rudeness.
Bet's sire (well, Liza's, at your pleasure)
Was one who knew no law but the measure
Of's will—a most elastic tether:
He had (and some make question whether
'Twas done of grace or despotism)
Taken advantage of a schism
Among the shepherds who care for souls,
To spoil some of their fishes and rolls.
That is to say, he turn'd adrift
Sundry friars, out of whose thrift—
Rogues as they might be, ne'ertheless—
The poor had succour in distress.
Beggars and monks were told to shift.
Woe to the poor! till glorious Bess
(Who wink'd not, save at manliness)
Swore by 'od's teeth, her father's oath,
(A practice to which she was not loath)
That every man had a right to live,
Even though his labour might not thrive.
Was one who knew no law but the measure
Of's will—a most elastic tether:
He had (and some make question whether
'Twas done of grace or despotism)
Taken advantage of a schism
Among the shepherds who care for souls,
To spoil some of their fishes and rolls.
That is to say, he turn'd adrift
Sundry friars, out of whose thrift—
Rogues as they might be, ne'ertheless—
The poor had succour in distress.
Beggars and monks were told to shift.
Woe to the poor! till glorious Bess
(Who wink'd not, save at manliness)
Swore by 'od's teeth, her father's oath,
(A practice to which she was not loath)
That every man had a right to live,
Even though his labour might not thrive.
Who bars the claim of one past labour
To share the abundance of his neighbour,
Denies the right of Pity, sent
By Heaven to be the muniment
Of Justice, else most justly shent.
This was the law by Nature given,
When man, unbreech'd, unshod, was driven
From the untailor'd paradise—
That garden of content which lies,
According to our clearest notion,
Some leagues beyond the extremest ocean;
Or, in more measured words express'd,
Just fifteen paces to the west
Of the angel with the flaming sword:
But, quitting this, which (take our word!)
Is an insolvent speculation,
To jog along with our narration;
Let us endeavour to unravel
The tortuous track of human travel,
Out of the naked innocence,
Through the rude windings of offence,
To that sophisticated morn
Which witness'd our tale's hero born.
To share the abundance of his neighbour,
Denies the right of Pity, sent
By Heaven to be the muniment
Of Justice, else most justly shent.
This was the law by Nature given,
When man, unbreech'd, unshod, was driven
5
That garden of content which lies,
According to our clearest notion,
Some leagues beyond the extremest ocean;
Or, in more measured words express'd,
Just fifteen paces to the west
Of the angel with the flaming sword:
But, quitting this, which (take our word!)
Is an insolvent speculation,
To jog along with our narration;
Let us endeavour to unravel
The tortuous track of human travel,
Out of the naked innocence,
Through the rude windings of offence,
To that sophisticated morn
Which witness'd our tale's hero born.
Well, as we said, in the olden days,
When ladies never miss'd their stays
(Because, in truth, they'd not been granted:
A cherub might as well have panted
For a dandy pair of pantaloons,
Or whale have sigh'd for table-spoons:)
Days more than “golden,” double-worth'd,
When horrible gold was all unearth'd—
The days of Natural Equal-
Ity and property for all;
There were no Poor-laws, for this good
Reason, that no man wanted food;
And none on's neighbour any ravages
Committed; till at length some savages,
A lordly, idle set of stoats,
Seized peaceful husbandman by th' throats,
And over Nature's gentlest code,
On roaring Rapine rough-shod rode.
Here is the origin of what
Is call'd the law of scot and lot.
After a time, a cunning rascal,
Almost as 'cute a chap as Pascal
Was in geometry, to invent
A plan by which to circumvent
The aristocratic testament,
Set wits to work, and money made,
Merely to accommodate his trade,—
A sort of circulating medium
By which men might redeem the tedium
Of the antique clumsy bartering,—
How to swop all and every thing.
Then ships were built, and cities stood
On site of many a noble wood;
And, 'stead of breaking lances featly,
Men learnt to bleed a pocket neatly,
Till war, defrauded of his “sinews,”
Lay a bound Triton 'mong the minnows—
Like Gulliver at Lilliput,
Or knight head-stuck in muddy rut.
So stepp'd our world from times as Goth wild,
To the very presence of a Rothschild;
Till even “this corner of the west”
Got shares in civilization's best.
Now, to apply the application
To the back of our own happy nation:—
We've had our scions of misrule,
Of the illegitimate Norman school,
Who've laid our husbandmen in bond—
Like eels pent up in shallow pond—
Curfewing us, and then with “charters”
Just lighting some to adore their garters;
All this we've borne, and worse behind,
The money-men who “sow the wind,”
And “bills of rights” by taxes paid—
Like child by its mother overlaid—
Till, what with thief's and murderer's ration,
We've cross'd to a tarnation station—
At least a break-leg elevation.
We've told how royal Betsy swore,
That rights of right belong'd to the poor:
Of late the Solons of the nation
Out of their bag of legislation
(The bag o' the spider, not o' the bee)
Have spun a web, a twist of three,
Of such a monstrous complication—
Good meanings it is said pave hell:
There's not a doubt but they meant well—
It threats the poor with worse starvation
Than when bluff Harry kick'd the monks out:
Our tale will show you what 'tis about.
“Your introduction tires the reader:
Directly with your tale proceed!” Y'ur
Honour's will shall be obey'd.
When ladies never miss'd their stays
(Because, in truth, they'd not been granted:
A cherub might as well have panted
For a dandy pair of pantaloons,
Or whale have sigh'd for table-spoons:)
Days more than “golden,” double-worth'd,
When horrible gold was all unearth'd—
The days of Natural Equal-
Ity and property for all;
There were no Poor-laws, for this good
Reason, that no man wanted food;
And none on's neighbour any ravages
Committed; till at length some savages,
A lordly, idle set of stoats,
Seized peaceful husbandman by th' throats,
And over Nature's gentlest code,
On roaring Rapine rough-shod rode.
6
Is call'd the law of scot and lot.
After a time, a cunning rascal,
Almost as 'cute a chap as Pascal
Was in geometry, to invent
A plan by which to circumvent
The aristocratic testament,
Set wits to work, and money made,
Merely to accommodate his trade,—
A sort of circulating medium
By which men might redeem the tedium
Of the antique clumsy bartering,—
How to swop all and every thing.
Then ships were built, and cities stood
On site of many a noble wood;
And, 'stead of breaking lances featly,
Men learnt to bleed a pocket neatly,
Till war, defrauded of his “sinews,”
Lay a bound Triton 'mong the minnows—
Like Gulliver at Lilliput,
Or knight head-stuck in muddy rut.
So stepp'd our world from times as Goth wild,
To the very presence of a Rothschild;
Till even “this corner of the west”
Got shares in civilization's best.
Now, to apply the application
To the back of our own happy nation:—
We've had our scions of misrule,
Of the illegitimate Norman school,
Who've laid our husbandmen in bond—
Like eels pent up in shallow pond—
Curfewing us, and then with “charters”
Just lighting some to adore their garters;
All this we've borne, and worse behind,
The money-men who “sow the wind,”
And “bills of rights” by taxes paid—
Like child by its mother overlaid—
Till, what with thief's and murderer's ration,
We've cross'd to a tarnation station—
At least a break-leg elevation.
We've told how royal Betsy swore,
That rights of right belong'd to the poor:
7
Out of their bag of legislation
(The bag o' the spider, not o' the bee)
Have spun a web, a twist of three,
Of such a monstrous complication—
Good meanings it is said pave hell:
There's not a doubt but they meant well—
It threats the poor with worse starvation
Than when bluff Harry kick'd the monks out:
Our tale will show you what 'tis about.
“Your introduction tires the reader:
Directly with your tale proceed!” Y'ur
Honour's will shall be obey'd.
Bob Thin a weaver was, by trade;
An honest lad and most industrious—
Therefore, we dare to say it, illustrious.
One who would ply his busy loom
From dawn to the very “crack of doom”;
Of kindly nature; one who never
Turn'd back on needy brother weaver.
These were Bob's virtues; place he had, too,
In the 'bus that every man is cad to—
And woman eke, since Eve bit apple—
Sin's 'bus, that thunders thro' Whitechapel,
The regularest 'bus of fifty:
In plain terms, Bob was not owre thrifty;
He had (the truth, Sir, must be told)
A most immoral scorn of gold.
He hadn't learnt it from his vicar;
Nor he from the extra-reverend thicker-
Bodied and crowned bench of pastors,
Who, cheek by jowl with our lay masters,
Make Poor-laws for us working folk;
Playing the parts of nave and spoke
In the common wheel that over-rolls,
Like Juggernaut, the prostrate shoals
Of worshippers, with an oppression
Most damnable; excuse the expression!
To our tale:—One day, in's Sunday coat,
Bob heard out of the parson's throat—
One Dr. M.; not M. who wrote—
God's holy law and warranty
For man to “increase and multiply”;
And found not in the sacred text,
To “pause, lest overseers be vext.”
So, though his household gear was scanty,
And scant the furniture of pantry,
Zealous for virtue, Bob got wed;
Too soon more mouths had to be fed.
Till, what with more of bairns than money,
Bob's hive was stock'd with want of honey.
No matter—trade was brisk; and Bob
'D work till his finger-ends would throb:—
But hold! let us philosophise.
Whoever send us mouths and eyes,
'Tis plain as pikestaff, Providence
(We say it, meaning no offence)
Don't always send a weaver work,
Or even an extra knife and fork,
Because his family increases:
The inference is just what pleases
The reader; we resume our story.
Years roll'd along in honest glory
Bob fed two children—three—and four;
But when a fifth knock'd at the door
(No-Work had just proclaim'd a fast)
It must be own'd Bob look'd aghast.
What's to be done? a host of neighbours
Have had (some whim of Trade) their labours
Suspended; Misery looks garish:
Lean Bob must come upon his parish.
As shipwreck'd seamen come on rocks
To starve, secure from tempest-shocks,
Storm-driven Bob and family
Must quit—few know how ruefully—
The home of their prosperity.
But wherefore this? will none lend aid
Until a kindly turn of Trade
Shall set Bob on his legs again?
Alas! the poor man pleads in vain.
Christian Respectability
Just gives out of its charity
A cold, “Lay by for a rainy day”;
And Poor-law mediciners say,
Out-door relief induces fraud,
Except when granted to a lord,
And spoils the incentive to endeavour
In all but the gentleman-receiver.
Poor reasons why the innocent
From their own hearth-stones should be sent
To a cold workhouse! yet no better
Were given in the Bishop's letter.
In Campden-gardens, Bethnal-green,
Bob's homestead was, not over clean,
Nor in most healthy atmosphere;
Lying unfortunately near
To Lamb's-fields' marsh, a stagnant pool
Of some three hundred square feet, full
Of the spawn of dire contagion, which
Dwelt rankly there and in a ditch
That skirted North-street, neighbourly.
The weltering ditch crawl'd filthily,
Yet with most kind, though lame, endeavour
To drain the place, which landlord never
Attempted: he could let his hovels,
Why pay for sanatory shovels?
No law sets bounds to the landlord's wealth,
Albeit his rent is his tenant's health
Transmuted. This locality
Was a Mr. Christian's property;
He leased it of one General Fever,
Ground landlord of the estate of Weaver.
The fine, an occasional weaver's life
(No matter if 'twere child or wife),
Paid regularly to the thrilling
Of the owner's heart and pocket filling
Alternately: 'twas very strange,
Good tenants were so given to change.
The atmosphere, we said, was sickly,
With wretched dwellings planted thickly,
Weavers' “and else,” all sons of toil,
Born serfs of this most loathly soil,
This drainless swamp, by landlords clogg'd,
Whose lives unholy gain so fogg'd,
No charity might enter in
To cheer the misers' wintering.
Even in this place of misery
Lived Bob in his prosperity;
In a poor-furnish'd, “two-room'd” hole,
Undrain'd, unventilated, foul,
Mean, miserable as the soul
Of landlord Christian: yet Bob spun
From morn till “dewy eve,” was one
Whose labour never was relax'd,
Who had been duly christen'd, tax'd,
And rated; and thus lived in the lees
Of a fat-bishop'd diocese.
But Bob's was no uncommon case:
He fared like others of his race,
Of the working Pariah caste, who meet ye
In the heart of London's wealthiest city—
London for “charities” renown'd;
Despite the daily traces found
Of hoary Squalor's crippled feet
'Twixt Lambeth and Threadneedle-street.
Squalor resides in Bethnal-green!
And there, oftimes, our gracious Queen
Cheereth not with her lustrous face
The common dimness of the place;
Though she delighted, it is said,
To see Van Amburgh's lions fed;
God bless her Majesty's sweet features!
Lions are interesting creatures.
Yet, Lady! would it not be grander
To feed the hungry poor who wander,
Through all weather, early and late,
To and fro—for they dare not wait—
Before your guarded palace-gate:
With whom even Pimlico abounds,
Worse cared for than your Grace's hounds?
The very dogs lick'd Lazarus' wounds.
Good God! The court-fool stops us short:—
What! Famine introduced at Court?
Peace, grumbler! it has been determined,
At the suggestion of an ermined
Prime Minister, whom we would rather
Not mention, that the reverend father
In God, his grace the Metropoli-
Tan, so eminently quali-
Fied for any liberal act
Tow'rd Christian poor—we give no fact,
But state it on authority—
That he and her dear Majesty
On voyage of discovery
Will start, early some sunny morn,
To visit Christianly the lorn
Abodes of labour to be seen
In the province of far Bethnal-green.
We've paced the distance, and have found,
To cross the intervening ground,
From Buckingham Palace to Bob Thin's door,
Would take the Royal Coach just one hour.
Then there's the guards' and horses' trappings,
Not to be donn'd like beggars' wrappings
(So that, indeed, 'twould be a feat
Worthy the poet-laureate,
Bob's namesake): and his holiness,
In imitative humbleness,
Might walk as far 'twixt lunch and dinner,
Bussing it back, and be no thinner.
If it be only food, indeed,
The wretched Bethnal-greeners need,
He will prescribe, with looks right rueful,
Just eight or ten new churches, pew-full.
If these suffice not, we believe
Our generous Queen is sure to give,
Her famish'd subjects to relieve,
Ungrudgingly, suppose we say,
Out of her thousand pounds a day,
One hundred; and the holy bishop
A tithe out of the profits of his shop,
Split into shillings, and so given,
At the labourer's weekly rate of seven,
'Twould clear some thousand homes of sorrow.
But Queen nor Father 'll go to-morrow.
What odds? the Poor-law fills their places
With its vice-royal, saintly graces.
Back to our tale. Bob's family
Quit, as we said, most ruefully,
The home of their prosperity.
Who loves not home, however poor?
Yourself the master of the door;
There, though sore hunted, to be free:—
What wretch would choose captivity?
Bob had no choice; relief forbidden
To all but those in a workhouse hidden,
Under the “regulations.” He
Might choose to starve at liberty,
Alone, but, for his family's sake,
Must bow his honest pride to take
The felon chain and prison rations
Of the “amendment” regulations.
Alas! he may not claim a bone
Even in the workhouse:—be it known,
Though Bethnal-green might own his sire,
That Bob was born in Monmouthshire:
And, therefore, 'twas most fit and proper
He should be deemed an interloper
In Bethnal Union, where abound
Such men as the Samaritan found,
But few Samaritans—no libel;
They're Christians, and believe the Bible.
Nor may their justice tolerate
Any addition to the rate,
To burden men of wealth, whose profit
Bob spun, though he might share none of it.
“But had he no right to relief?”
None. “Why?” We'll answer you in brief:
What claim has the beggar on his thief?
The “Guardians” smiled their sage approval,
And duly order'd the removal
Of the strange paupers: so they sent
The wretches to their “settlement”—
Let no man call it punishment.
'Twas for his own convenience' sake:
When the now-slumbering trade should wake,
He'd be so handy to resume
His place at the accustom'd loom:—
So care they for the poor man's doom.
Now, as the cart of charity glode
With easy carriage on the road,
Bob thought he might as well beguile
With converse close his travel-while.
Question and answer came as follows:—
Quoth Question, out of Bob's cheek-hollows,
While Answer sate with arms a-kimbo,—
Pray tell me why I'm set in limbo?—
Answer—Because the Well-to-do
Can find no better use for you.—
What right have they to order me?—
Answer—The right of property.—
Question again—But how invented?
It can't be shown that I consented:
And every compact doth demand
Two parties.—You will understand,
Replies the other, your assent
Was duly given by Parliament,
Your representatives, and—Stay!
Will you be good enough to say,
How these same representers got
At the will of one who had no vote?—
Answer—My friend! you are not able
To comprehend this veritable
Fair feature of our Constitution,
Which—Favour me with a solution
Of that fine-sounding word! What is't?—
Hereupon Answer clench'd his fist,
Eloquently.—Will tell me where
It may be found?—Reply, a stare,
And sort of clutching at the air,
After a phantom; then a frown,
Which fairly knock'd the Question down:
At last came words:—It is not fit
That poor men should in judgment sit
On this most reverend mystery.
If you examine history,
The courtly Hume's, where he relates
Of 1688's
Most Dutch and glorious “Revolution,”
King William and his Constitution,
And the “Convention,” you will see
How Parliament right loyally
Confirm'd the Hollander's accession,
For having ratified their session.
It follows, as a thing of course,
As good things ever must grow worse
By alteration, that the code,
Even the horse King William rode,
Which our wise ancestors approved
Should by their sons be ne'er improved
Throughout all time.—Bob heard no more
Until the party reach'd the door
Of Godstone Union poorhouse, where,
After the usual courtesies,
And introduction of the keys,
They were admitted to the care
Of the poorhouse king, a sort of human
Xyster—May the Lord keep you, man,
And all who read this true relation,
Out of his sphere of operation!
Here man and wife were torn asunder:
God-join'd, but to be parted under
The “regulations”: each one buried
From the other's wretchedness; both hurried
Into their lonely graves. For the rest,
Their treatment was not of the best.
One item may suffice to show
How careful of each other's woe
Are human things, albeit extremely
Zealous to wear a visage seemly
As fairest-whiten'd sepulchre:—
Look at that tomb of the labourer,
Yon profit-plaster'd villain; Sir!
Though his hoarded wealth is the charnel-dew,
Though he stole the byeword of the Jew,
Verily he will prate to you
Of the great Improvidence; nor tinge
His corpse-face, though a man should twinge
His “soul” with the workhouse “dietary”—
Food being ruled a necessary.
Pray you to note how the profit-monger
Caters for those who can work no longer!
For breakfast—bread, not without stint:
The men have seven ounces, and a pint
And half of skilly—a thin kind
Of “gruel,” such as you can find
Nowhere except on the hard tables
Of “regulation” human stables.
For dinner—meat, five ounces twice
Each week; “potato-hash”; soup; rice,
Nearly a pound; coarse bread, and cheese,
Two ounces of the latter: these
Are their alternate luxuries.
When millionaires can wring no more
Out of the earnings of the poor,
Thus does their charity atone
For their cupidity. 'Tis done
(At least, so poor-law doctors say)
For the labourers' benefit, that they
May hang upon their own resources;
Meanwhile in his plethoric courses
The master wallows. Who shall wrest
The portion of the poor opprest?
Bob, from his wife and children parted,
Droops in his prison, broken-hearted.
He dreameth not of better days,
His sorrow-glazed and stolid gaze
Shutter'd with hopelessness; and curst,
As of all criminals the worst,
He buries in his “infamy”
The care of life, and fain would die.
His very life is lifeless torpor:
Bob Thin is changed into the Pauper.
So crept long years upon the dark
Sands of his life; nor left a mark.
Even as a mouldering desert-stone,
Was he in the human world—alone.
At length the dropping of despair
Outwore his patience, even there,
In the poorhouse; so the pauper fled
Into the air. Long wandered
The unpursued, unknowing aim,
A rugged way, until night came;
Then, on the road-side's dreariness,
O'erladen with his weariness,
He sank exhausted; there, around
His shatter'd form kind Slumber wound
Her arms:—Let no rude stir unbind 'em!
Would you know more of him, you'll find him,
In the next part, beneath an oak.
An honest lad and most industrious—
Therefore, we dare to say it, illustrious.
One who would ply his busy loom
From dawn to the very “crack of doom”;
Of kindly nature; one who never
Turn'd back on needy brother weaver.
These were Bob's virtues; place he had, too,
In the 'bus that every man is cad to—
And woman eke, since Eve bit apple—
Sin's 'bus, that thunders thro' Whitechapel,
The regularest 'bus of fifty:
In plain terms, Bob was not owre thrifty;
He had (the truth, Sir, must be told)
A most immoral scorn of gold.
He hadn't learnt it from his vicar;
Nor he from the extra-reverend thicker-
Bodied and crowned bench of pastors,
Who, cheek by jowl with our lay masters,
Make Poor-laws for us working folk;
Playing the parts of nave and spoke
In the common wheel that over-rolls,
Like Juggernaut, the prostrate shoals
Of worshippers, with an oppression
8
To our tale:—One day, in's Sunday coat,
Bob heard out of the parson's throat—
One Dr. M.; not M. who wrote—
God's holy law and warranty
For man to “increase and multiply”;
And found not in the sacred text,
To “pause, lest overseers be vext.”
So, though his household gear was scanty,
And scant the furniture of pantry,
Zealous for virtue, Bob got wed;
Too soon more mouths had to be fed.
Till, what with more of bairns than money,
Bob's hive was stock'd with want of honey.
No matter—trade was brisk; and Bob
'D work till his finger-ends would throb:—
But hold! let us philosophise.
Whoever send us mouths and eyes,
'Tis plain as pikestaff, Providence
(We say it, meaning no offence)
Don't always send a weaver work,
Or even an extra knife and fork,
Because his family increases:
The inference is just what pleases
The reader; we resume our story.
Years roll'd along in honest glory
Bob fed two children—three—and four;
But when a fifth knock'd at the door
(No-Work had just proclaim'd a fast)
It must be own'd Bob look'd aghast.
What's to be done? a host of neighbours
Have had (some whim of Trade) their labours
Suspended; Misery looks garish:
Lean Bob must come upon his parish.
As shipwreck'd seamen come on rocks
To starve, secure from tempest-shocks,
Storm-driven Bob and family
Must quit—few know how ruefully—
The home of their prosperity.
But wherefore this? will none lend aid
Until a kindly turn of Trade
Shall set Bob on his legs again?
9
Christian Respectability
Just gives out of its charity
A cold, “Lay by for a rainy day”;
And Poor-law mediciners say,
Out-door relief induces fraud,
Except when granted to a lord,
And spoils the incentive to endeavour
In all but the gentleman-receiver.
Poor reasons why the innocent
From their own hearth-stones should be sent
To a cold workhouse! yet no better
Were given in the Bishop's letter.
In Campden-gardens, Bethnal-green,
Bob's homestead was, not over clean,
Nor in most healthy atmosphere;
Lying unfortunately near
To Lamb's-fields' marsh, a stagnant pool
Of some three hundred square feet, full
Of the spawn of dire contagion, which
Dwelt rankly there and in a ditch
That skirted North-street, neighbourly.
The weltering ditch crawl'd filthily,
Yet with most kind, though lame, endeavour
To drain the place, which landlord never
Attempted: he could let his hovels,
Why pay for sanatory shovels?
No law sets bounds to the landlord's wealth,
Albeit his rent is his tenant's health
Transmuted. This locality
Was a Mr. Christian's property;
He leased it of one General Fever,
Ground landlord of the estate of Weaver.
The fine, an occasional weaver's life
(No matter if 'twere child or wife),
Paid regularly to the thrilling
Of the owner's heart and pocket filling
Alternately: 'twas very strange,
Good tenants were so given to change.
The atmosphere, we said, was sickly,
With wretched dwellings planted thickly,
Weavers' “and else,” all sons of toil,
10
This drainless swamp, by landlords clogg'd,
Whose lives unholy gain so fogg'd,
No charity might enter in
To cheer the misers' wintering.
Even in this place of misery
Lived Bob in his prosperity;
In a poor-furnish'd, “two-room'd” hole,
Undrain'd, unventilated, foul,
Mean, miserable as the soul
Of landlord Christian: yet Bob spun
From morn till “dewy eve,” was one
Whose labour never was relax'd,
Who had been duly christen'd, tax'd,
And rated; and thus lived in the lees
Of a fat-bishop'd diocese.
But Bob's was no uncommon case:
He fared like others of his race,
Of the working Pariah caste, who meet ye
In the heart of London's wealthiest city—
London for “charities” renown'd;
Despite the daily traces found
Of hoary Squalor's crippled feet
'Twixt Lambeth and Threadneedle-street.
Squalor resides in Bethnal-green!
And there, oftimes, our gracious Queen
Cheereth not with her lustrous face
The common dimness of the place;
Though she delighted, it is said,
To see Van Amburgh's lions fed;
God bless her Majesty's sweet features!
Lions are interesting creatures.
Yet, Lady! would it not be grander
To feed the hungry poor who wander,
Through all weather, early and late,
To and fro—for they dare not wait—
Before your guarded palace-gate:
With whom even Pimlico abounds,
Worse cared for than your Grace's hounds?
The very dogs lick'd Lazarus' wounds.
Good God! The court-fool stops us short:—
What! Famine introduced at Court?
11
At the suggestion of an ermined
Prime Minister, whom we would rather
Not mention, that the reverend father
In God, his grace the Metropoli-
Tan, so eminently quali-
Fied for any liberal act
Tow'rd Christian poor—we give no fact,
But state it on authority—
That he and her dear Majesty
On voyage of discovery
Will start, early some sunny morn,
To visit Christianly the lorn
Abodes of labour to be seen
In the province of far Bethnal-green.
We've paced the distance, and have found,
To cross the intervening ground,
From Buckingham Palace to Bob Thin's door,
Would take the Royal Coach just one hour.
Then there's the guards' and horses' trappings,
Not to be donn'd like beggars' wrappings
(So that, indeed, 'twould be a feat
Worthy the poet-laureate,
Bob's namesake): and his holiness,
In imitative humbleness,
Might walk as far 'twixt lunch and dinner,
Bussing it back, and be no thinner.
If it be only food, indeed,
The wretched Bethnal-greeners need,
He will prescribe, with looks right rueful,
Just eight or ten new churches, pew-full.
If these suffice not, we believe
Our generous Queen is sure to give,
Her famish'd subjects to relieve,
Ungrudgingly, suppose we say,
Out of her thousand pounds a day,
One hundred; and the holy bishop
A tithe out of the profits of his shop,
Split into shillings, and so given,
At the labourer's weekly rate of seven,
'Twould clear some thousand homes of sorrow.
But Queen nor Father 'll go to-morrow.
12
With its vice-royal, saintly graces.
Back to our tale. Bob's family
Quit, as we said, most ruefully,
The home of their prosperity.
Who loves not home, however poor?
Yourself the master of the door;
There, though sore hunted, to be free:—
What wretch would choose captivity?
Bob had no choice; relief forbidden
To all but those in a workhouse hidden,
Under the “regulations.” He
Might choose to starve at liberty,
Alone, but, for his family's sake,
Must bow his honest pride to take
The felon chain and prison rations
Of the “amendment” regulations.
Alas! he may not claim a bone
Even in the workhouse:—be it known,
Though Bethnal-green might own his sire,
That Bob was born in Monmouthshire:
And, therefore, 'twas most fit and proper
He should be deemed an interloper
In Bethnal Union, where abound
Such men as the Samaritan found,
But few Samaritans—no libel;
They're Christians, and believe the Bible.
Nor may their justice tolerate
Any addition to the rate,
To burden men of wealth, whose profit
Bob spun, though he might share none of it.
“But had he no right to relief?”
None. “Why?” We'll answer you in brief:
What claim has the beggar on his thief?
The “Guardians” smiled their sage approval,
And duly order'd the removal
Of the strange paupers: so they sent
The wretches to their “settlement”—
Let no man call it punishment.
'Twas for his own convenience' sake:
When the now-slumbering trade should wake,
He'd be so handy to resume
13
So care they for the poor man's doom.
Now, as the cart of charity glode
With easy carriage on the road,
Bob thought he might as well beguile
With converse close his travel-while.
Question and answer came as follows:—
Quoth Question, out of Bob's cheek-hollows,
While Answer sate with arms a-kimbo,—
Pray tell me why I'm set in limbo?—
Answer—Because the Well-to-do
Can find no better use for you.—
What right have they to order me?—
Answer—The right of property.—
Question again—But how invented?
It can't be shown that I consented:
And every compact doth demand
Two parties.—You will understand,
Replies the other, your assent
Was duly given by Parliament,
Your representatives, and—Stay!
Will you be good enough to say,
How these same representers got
At the will of one who had no vote?—
Answer—My friend! you are not able
To comprehend this veritable
Fair feature of our Constitution,
Which—Favour me with a solution
Of that fine-sounding word! What is't?—
Hereupon Answer clench'd his fist,
Eloquently.—Will tell me where
It may be found?—Reply, a stare,
And sort of clutching at the air,
After a phantom; then a frown,
Which fairly knock'd the Question down:
At last came words:—It is not fit
That poor men should in judgment sit
On this most reverend mystery.
If you examine history,
The courtly Hume's, where he relates
Of 1688's
Most Dutch and glorious “Revolution,”
14
And the “Convention,” you will see
How Parliament right loyally
Confirm'd the Hollander's accession,
For having ratified their session.
It follows, as a thing of course,
As good things ever must grow worse
By alteration, that the code,
Even the horse King William rode,
Which our wise ancestors approved
Should by their sons be ne'er improved
Throughout all time.—Bob heard no more
Until the party reach'd the door
Of Godstone Union poorhouse, where,
After the usual courtesies,
And introduction of the keys,
They were admitted to the care
Of the poorhouse king, a sort of human
Xyster—May the Lord keep you, man,
And all who read this true relation,
Out of his sphere of operation!
Here man and wife were torn asunder:
God-join'd, but to be parted under
The “regulations”: each one buried
From the other's wretchedness; both hurried
Into their lonely graves. For the rest,
Their treatment was not of the best.
One item may suffice to show
How careful of each other's woe
Are human things, albeit extremely
Zealous to wear a visage seemly
As fairest-whiten'd sepulchre:—
Look at that tomb of the labourer,
Yon profit-plaster'd villain; Sir!
Though his hoarded wealth is the charnel-dew,
Though he stole the byeword of the Jew,
Verily he will prate to you
Of the great Improvidence; nor tinge
His corpse-face, though a man should twinge
His “soul” with the workhouse “dietary”—
Food being ruled a necessary.
Pray you to note how the profit-monger
15
For breakfast—bread, not without stint:
The men have seven ounces, and a pint
And half of skilly—a thin kind
Of “gruel,” such as you can find
Nowhere except on the hard tables
Of “regulation” human stables.
For dinner—meat, five ounces twice
Each week; “potato-hash”; soup; rice,
Nearly a pound; coarse bread, and cheese,
Two ounces of the latter: these
Are their alternate luxuries.
When millionaires can wring no more
Out of the earnings of the poor,
Thus does their charity atone
For their cupidity. 'Tis done
(At least, so poor-law doctors say)
For the labourers' benefit, that they
May hang upon their own resources;
Meanwhile in his plethoric courses
The master wallows. Who shall wrest
The portion of the poor opprest?
Bob, from his wife and children parted,
Droops in his prison, broken-hearted.
He dreameth not of better days,
His sorrow-glazed and stolid gaze
Shutter'd with hopelessness; and curst,
As of all criminals the worst,
He buries in his “infamy”
The care of life, and fain would die.
His very life is lifeless torpor:
Bob Thin is changed into the Pauper.
So crept long years upon the dark
Sands of his life; nor left a mark.
Even as a mouldering desert-stone,
Was he in the human world—alone.
At length the dropping of despair
Outwore his patience, even there,
In the poorhouse; so the pauper fled
Into the air. Long wandered
The unpursued, unknowing aim,
A rugged way, until night came;
16
O'erladen with his weariness,
He sank exhausted; there, around
His shatter'd form kind Slumber wound
Her arms:—Let no rude stir unbind 'em!
Would you know more of him, you'll find him,
In the next part, beneath an oak.
17
THE POORHOUSE FUGITIVE:
BEING THE SEQUEL TO BOB THIN.
Twas morning when the Sleeper woke:A bright, spring-wreathéd morn, whose look
Of warm, fresh joyance, with a tone
Of kindliness long-time unknown,
To the heart of the worn Pauper spoke.
'Twas like a gentle mother smiling
On a sick infant, and beguiling
Its pain with fond entanglement
Of her caresses: so was bent
Over the lone man's poverty
The fair day, smiling healthfully.
In the deep grief-tracks of his brow
And wither'd cheeks he felt the press
Of gentlest kisses, to and fro
Stealing in their tenderness,
With delicious whispering
Of gracious Nature's sympathy
Ever to us ministering;
18
His frozen eye was sunn'd again,
His wrinkled lip forgot its pain;
And as the child, whose ail subsideth,
In its mother's bosom hideth
All its former restlessness—
So the old-time fretfulness
Of the grey man's spirit sank
On the genial earth, which drank
The memory of his wretchedness;
Till again on the clear sky
He looked with unfaltering eye.
The pauper waketh on a bed
Of mossy gold, gold-canopied
By the new oak-buds God-yspread.
'Tis a morn of blithest weather;
Such a morn as blends together
Snow-piled hearts and youthful feeling,
With a mighty love-annealing.
Where, but yesternight, the road
Like a desert pathway show'd,
With its traffic-dust obscuring
The sweet flowers, of God's procuring,
Prison'd to its ruléd side,
Troops of flowers, heaven-eyed,
Wander now; and lazily
Through their blooms the road doth glide,
Serpent-like and mazily:
And the flowers in peace abide.
Yester-even, far and wide,
Naked fields on either hand
Mock'd the traveller's weary eye;
Now his pleasant way is spann'd
With delicatest tracery,
Throng'd with gamesome choristers;
And the tiniest blade that stirs,
19
That lull'd the old man's memories,
Seems instinct with melody:
Till the charmed sense doth pine
In an ecstacy divine.
Such was the wondrous change that met
The gaze of the Poorhouse Fugitive:
He knoweth not if he may live;
Is he awake, or dreaming yet?
Or was his former life a dream?
Or are all things but as they seem?
He knoweth nought. The youngling tree,
Where he had flung his misery,
Seems century-lined: what may this be?
And now, over the pearled grass
With which the road is carpeted,
A group of noble figures pass,
Appropriately habited:
Symmetried forms, whose graceful dress
Hides not their natural comeliness:
Women and men. His spirit quails
In their high presences: as pales
The dull night when the royal Sun
Steppeth on earth, even so doth he
Shrink from that goodly company:
With a vain bashfulness: for One,
A woman glorious as the day,
Sees him, and he perforce must stay;
And faintly her behest awaits.
Her snaky lips, with smiles apart,
Seem'd like the hospitable gates
Of the bower-palace of a heart
Full-honey'd as the fragrant cells
Young insects open; her deep eyes
Clear-azured, heaven-reflecting wells
Of ever-gushing harmonies—
20
Of her rich language was of such
Intensest witchery, it wound
A never-failing echo round
The listener's heart, while it did touch
The dominant chord within him. She
Sail'd tow'rd the rapt man greetingly,
Inquiring with some wonderment,
Of his new coming and intent;
But he was mute: he dared not mar
The lingering cadence of her speech
With the poor words within his reach.
Ah, me! how meanly furnish'd are
Our tongues, of our desires to teach!
The lady led him by the hand
Toward that goodly company;
Who met him with a welcome bland,
And, without further scrutiny,
Besought the stranger, if his hest
Might brook delay, to be their guest.
God! how the tears slid down the cheeks
Of the Unscourged One; he speaks
His gratitude, all loutingly;
Whereat they wonder seriously,
Beholding age so humbly borne.
“Father! why bowed thus? Art worn
With some strange grief? We, who have known
None other home-companion
Save Joy, will solace thee, if thou
Wilt journey with us.” To the brow
Of the grey-man's soul the tonguéd flame
Of comfort leaps; with glad acclaim
He pays assent: together fare
They onward, through the clear spring air.
Sudden their pleasant footway raught
The brow of an out-looking hill,
21
Upon its wreathéd window-sill
The yellow morning's first eye-twinkling,
Its blady tips and flowers sprinkling
With many an Iris-stolen gem
Of changeful hue, transmuting them
Into a royal diadem
For the true-watching hill. Hereon
The travellers halted; and anon,
Preluding in each other's eyes
The purport of their song, did don
Fresh greetings with these melodies:—
22
HYMN TO THE SUN.
Thou, whose shadow is forethrown
To blushing clouds that scarce have ceased
Dreaming of thy “good-night” tone;
Early kisser of the East—
Which the lark, thy trumpeter,
To the noon-sky telleth blithely:
We, as earlily astir,
Welcome thine uprising, lithely!
Hail! all hail!
To blushing clouds that scarce have ceased
Dreaming of thy “good-night” tone;
Early kisser of the East—
Which the lark, thy trumpeter,
To the noon-sky telleth blithely:
We, as earlily astir,
Welcome thine uprising, lithely!
Hail! all hail!
Thou, whose radiant visage peereth
Through yon grey hill's golden hair—
Round thee flung as if to hold thee
Ever throned and smiling there—
Haste! the lowly would behold thee;
Thou, whose fervent beauty weareth
Silvery ether as a veil,
Haste! the innermost stream must fold thee!
Hail! all hail!
Through yon grey hill's golden hair—
Round thee flung as if to hold thee
Ever throned and smiling there—
Haste! the lowly would behold thee;
Thou, whose fervent beauty weareth
Silvery ether as a veil,
Haste! the innermost stream must fold thee!
Hail! all hail!
Hail! thou rejoicing witnesser
Of human joy; swarth vine-dresser
Of joyance, whose ripe fruitage blesses
Earth's secretest recesses,—
Hailing thy glances unashamed,
As we now greet thee: hasten,
Lest the purple hours be blamed!
With zealous care we fasten
Thy many-color'd sandals on;
Earth panteth for thee. Beauty must be won!
Hail to thee! hail! all hail!
Of human joy; swarth vine-dresser
Of joyance, whose ripe fruitage blesses
Earth's secretest recesses,—
Hailing thy glances unashamed,
As we now greet thee: hasten,
Lest the purple hours be blamed!
With zealous care we fasten
Thy many-color'd sandals on;
Earth panteth for thee. Beauty must be won!
Hail to thee! hail! all hail!
23
In silence, yet not sullenly,
But smiling tremulously, like one
Not heedless of another's glee,
Though his own heart hath lost its tone;
Till now, their morning service done,
They care to break their fast. Their board
A little daisied knoll, the sward
Their pleasant couch, where each one takes
An equal place: thus furnished,
Their healthful catering is outspread
By the youngest hands, whose love doth render
Brisk service, courteous and tender.
Choice their providing:—milk-white bread,—
And delicate butter, scarce discern'd
'Mong primrose-flowers, as if churn'd
By lady fairies,—and sweet cakes
Of flavour various, to suit
The fickle palate,—store of fruit—
Conserves, and other sun-dried, full
Of their fresh richness (like some hearts,
Time-wrinkled yet still beautiful,
Whose passion-shrivell'd depth imparts
A hivéd sweetness),—milk yet warm
As the taster's lips,—and thicken'd cream
Of daintiest niceness:—one might deem
No more were needful; yet the charm
Of loveliest talk, behaviour glad—
Best gratitude—doth superadd
Delight to this deliciousness,
Even as the sunny day doth bless
The landscape's wide voluptuousness.
Brief time sufficeth to content
Their temperance, for the descent
Even more hungry; eye-allured
To leave their night-long fast uncured,
And with gay feet their will o'ertake,
Round the hill's waist, like a mad snake
24
O, for a free bird's vagrant wing,
To track their mazy wandering,
Weaving the glad hill's living zone;
With the late “Pauper” by their side,
A pilgrim travel-glorified!
In sooth, 'twas an inviting scene
By the swift sun beholden then
From the opposite eminence: long miles
Of hill and dale, and crystal streams
Meeting the day-laugh with faint smiles,
Such as, scarce waken'd from the dreams
Of the white night that did eclipse
Their evening splendor, on brides' lips
Wait the first morning kiss. What know
Or dream we of the electric flow
And interchange of heart-contents
Blending the voicéd elements?
Deep unto deep aye answering,
In the shadow of the silent wing
Of the Eternal Passer.—On
With the glad travellers! Nought is still
In life or death. The healthful will
Halts not, ever companioned
By strenuous thought, clear as yon rill
Now with us journeying—lately leapt
From the o'erhanging mountain-head,
As if the sun-engloried wept
Its welling overflow of bliss.
See how the wild-hair'd wavelets kiss
The smooth-cheek'd pebbles; how they bound
On, on; and many a sail-less boat,
Scarce managing to keep afloat,
Bear onward with them, round and round
Whirl'd with its atom company,
Whose sympathetic gaiety
Mimics the mad brook's revelry.
Now the impetuous streamlet rushes
25
With a tone of sweet defiance;
Now from under emerald bushes,
Like a glow-worm's ray, outgushes
Thorough mossed interstices
The new-wedded waves dividing;
Now are the green bubbles hiding
Underneath the palace-eaves
Of the lowly primrose-leaves,
While in closer re-alliance
Speed the blithe waves on the way
Of their merriest roundelay:
Now chanting loudly, now low-breathing
Joy-murmurings; anon enwreathing
The bald crown of some sturdy stone;
Thence, startled at his ancient frown,
Leaping, with gurgling laughter, down;
One over other tumbling them
Carelessly 'thwart the rooty stem
Of a grey oak that, father-like,
Leans o'er the easy-temper'd dyke,
Watchful; now are they blandly stroking
The lank hair of the river-maid,
Weed-like amid their kisses laid;—
Peep in the stream! she is uplooking
Through her green sedge veil; you may see
Her lustrous brow and wavy limbs,
And 'neath long eye-lashes the glee
Of her deep-looks, and catch a glimpse
Of ripply lips that laugh outright,
Laughing there continually,
In the ever-rocking light
Nursing their hilarity,—
Merrily, merrily.
And merrily the streamlet singeth,
As on and onward aye it springeth:
Ever abroad its song it flingeth,
Gloriously.
26
Boisterously:
With a shout and hearty laughter
Fore and after,
Joyously!
Slide we over the mossy ledge,
Lusciously,
Dreaming deliciously:
And an eternal roar rolls with us on our way.
Clear is the young spring day!
The thrilling laugh of childish glee,
And sobs and bubbling mirth, are ours
'Mid the wild flowers,—
The playful hours racing us through the heath,
Down the hill-side racing us out of breath:
And the eternal voice rolls o'er us sonorously.
An organ thunder—the dim melody
Of many instruments—a rushing throng
Of men and voices—near a charmed song,
Solemn afar, even as the voice of God;—
And heaven is children-trod;—
Over the many hills the same bright tune
Singing to sun and moon;
High company upon the hills we had;
Were not we glad,
Leaping from crag to crag?
27
Hiding behind the masses of the rocks;
Deem'd from afar to be the shining flocks
Of God upon the mountains fed,
Everywhere scattered;
Now as a silver thread
Along the deep ravine
The torrent speedeth; and again between
The massed rocks, fall after fall,
With uproar musical,
Bounding from crag to crag, on travel we.
Anon our passage free
A mountain wall hath stopp'd;
And we lie chafing in the fond distress
Of wayward pettishness,
Boiling with childish rage,
Till gentler tones assuage
Impetuosity.
Still, still hold watch and ward!
A postern is unbarr'd:
Through the quick gap our damm'd-up waters gush
All eagerly;
And our high song hath dropp'd
Adown the steeps of life, and youthhood's flush
Floweth more steadily.
Continueth our glee
Through the wide meadows, through the long lush grass;
28
The great grand trees, who in our changeful glass
Gaze, as a seer into a depth of dreams:
Queenliest trees, proud-form'd, with port serene!
And now our many streams
Are blending, and the mountain alleys,
Merged in one broad road, plunge toward the valleys,
While o'er our torrent force the hill-song leaps.
And here and there uppeeps
Through grassy hair the rude and weird face
Of some grey rock, one of the giant race
Of our bleak birthplace, grey as the memories
Of an uncultured world, the asperities
Of our progressive life; and still in sight
The ancient hill appears, its head in heaven;
And little rustic homelinesses
Welcome the mountain-born with flower-wreathing,
Bright buttercups, primroses quiet-breathing,
Rich-scented chestnut-bloom;
And in the torrent's foam
The sweet May dips her tresses,
Scarcely distinct:—On, on the waves are driven;
As o'er us the old mountain voice still hovers,
29
New beauty; other streamlets pour,
Like other minds, their flood of thought,
Or other beings influence, brought
From many a distance, hour by hour;
And the stream swells its volume, and the tide
Of power is amplified;
And earth is fertilized, field-glories wave,
And human dwellings stand on either side;
While with melodious stave
The river saileth through the busy scene,
And o'er it most serene
The hill-song, like a heaven-burden, hovers.
Now, like two eager lovers,
Two fair streams mingle hearts, and our full song
Is the quick panting of voluptuous life
The harvest fields among,
Beneath heaven-arched skies with blithest warblings rife:
And our sunn'd face is flush'd even as a bride's;
And many a trickling kiss in music glides,
Like molten silver bells, our features o'er—
A chorus liquefied of birds and flowers:
Such ecstasy is ours.
Yet still floats o'er our life the distant roar
Of the far mountain hymn; God whispers as of old.
30
The lovers, never more to be divided:
Two streaming lives that from the first have glided
Together-ward, two hearts into one fold.
The travellers have embark'd, and sail,
Smooth-water'd and with prosperous gale,
The purpose of the day to greet:
The old man with the weary feet
Resting among them. Sure is he
That angels are his company.
On, on, by golden-vestured trees,
Standing like thoughtful deities
Beholding their own images
In the clear current; by gay meads,
And towering fertilities,
And gorgeous growths sprung from the seeds
Of the unforgotten Paradise;
Above the dreamy world that lies
In the river-depth,—of giant forest,
Tangled dells and caves umbrageous,
Labyrinths such as thou explorest
With deep eye and thought courageous,
When the mystic veil is riven
Of the Spirit (such a world
Seemeth in the waters furl'd):
Through and over these they sail
With smooth course; the gentle gale
Echoing the dying fall
Of the wavelets lyrical;
The clear brow of blue-eyed heaven
Smilingly o'erarching all.
A glorious company are they
Voyaging on the waters there,
With hearts as warm and thoughts as gay
And outward-brilliant as the day;
And the old “Pauper” hath his share
Of pleasantness, and, joy-beguiled,
New-hearted as a little child,
No longer sleepeth with despair,
31
The current fighting with the breeze,
Till, kindling in the noontide rays,
The river seemeth one wide blaze
Of emerald and diamond,
Or as the river-god had donn'd
A panoply of steel; and splashing
Through green boughs the sun-looks glare,
Like the eyes of wood-nymphs, flashing
Through their shade of leafy hair;
And, as over human fate
Joy and sorrow alternate,
Sunny sheen and cloudy shadow
Pass o'er stream and banking meadow:
The strong earth-heart underneath
Thankfully continueth.
And now the grey-man's wistful eyes
Many on old scene recognise
In the windings of the river;
Making his worn lips to quiver
With emotion violent.
But the buried time mis-spent
May not vex his memory.
Look not back on misery
Lagging far behind!—The noon
Folds the sun in fierce embrace,
Like two lovers, face to face,
Mingling in a passion-swoon.
And the travellers leap ashore;
And toward the Place of Games
Bear their upward course, with store
Of hopeful strength that never lames;
Nor pause on the hill-top to ponder
On the wide, untrack'd river, yonder
Calmly sloping to the sea,
Like age toward eternity:—
The lark in the sky sings merrily:—
But to the bosom of the valley
Whither their long voyage tended
32
Now by many groups that rally
Tow'rd one purpose, till the road
Is gladden'd with a mighty crowd.
Beautiful the village show'd,
In the forest heart embower'd;
Every cottage over-flower'd,
Every cottage link'd by flowers
To its neighbour; every dwelling—
With its garden plot, for use,
Or for pomp voluptuous—
Like a form of beauty, telling
Of the spirit homed within,
Of a soul of healthful powers
All luxuriantly swelling
Into perfect beauty: towers
Of homeliest comfort, with the ease
And graceful art of palaces,—
Palace-nests amid the trees.
Swift to your place! the games begin.
33
Glorious creatures, such as trod
Eden by the side of God,
Artist visions, form'd to please
A Raphael or Praxitiles;
To a glade o' the forest wending,
With palm branches o'er them bending,
With glad hymns and festal looks,
And clear current as a brook's.
And now in the amphitheatre
Many a long way traveller
Hath his seat; and room for all
To behold the festival
Under the massive boughs is found;
And in the midst a cleared ground
For the gamesters. Hush! the voice
Of women, and the merry song
Of children, bird-like, mounts among
The branches, till the woods rejoice
To echo that sweet treble; then
The fuller tenor of the men
Upbears the anthem on strong wings
Of melody; and then again
The solemn bass down-draws the strain
Earthward. And now the twanging strings
34
O' the many arrows: yon fair boy
With the golden locks—the prize is his,
And his blue flower-like eyes are dew'd with joy.
And now with starting eyes, and feet
Scarce on the ground, tiptoe, and now
O'er the smooth course and up the brow
Of the rough broken hill, compete
The wing'd-heel'd racers. Now their place
The wrestlers take, and face to face
Stand lock'd, till, for the strong embrace
Incompetent, the overthrown
Measures the soft turf; and a crown
Of fragrance, and loud-clapping palms,
Reward the victor; while kind alms
Of great forbearance wreathe the fallen-down.
35
Most graceful, two scarce-bearded boys
Confront each other; strong and wary
And quick-handed; foil with foil
Lightly engaged. The dexterous feint,
And rapid lunge, and swifter parry,
The recovery, the coil,
The disentangling,—till one's breath is spent.
A hit!—young oak-leaves for his head!
Now the more strenuous games are sped:
And weapon'd with keen words, with shield
Of hard and lustrous sense, the field
Prompt arguers take; nor with mere words
Of logic, but with mighty swords
Of forgéd thought maintain the war.
And now the Poet, like a star
Heading the Wise, his silver beams
Pours mellowingly, till at the feet
Of blessed childhood once again they meet,
The Magi of the earth, folded in blissful dreams.
36
That Sleep, mother of calm, is his,
And all the soul-entangling bliss
Her love can harbinger; he seems
Bathed in delight, intoxicate
With his new life. Hath he the key
Of Faëry turn'd, and changed his state?
Or hath he learn'd the mystery
Of loveliness?—the eye perceives
That only which the heart believes.
The windows of the heart were dull;
Now all around is beautiful.
And One beside him doth relate
The meaning of their festival:
How met they to commemorate
A great deliverance,—from all
The ancient tyrannies of Wrong—
The tyrannies of rank-grown Will,
And sordid Trade (more selfish still),
And all the errors that belong
To the blind worker for self-gain,
And all the miseries in his train
Close following—corroding care,
And waste of energies, despair
Heart-deadening.—Even while he spoke,
This song the chain of memory broke.
37
THE SONG
Beautiful is the human land
Since Love returned home,
To build with subtlest art
In every boundless heart
His high imperial palace, heaven-spann'd,
Whence he may never roam.
Since Love returned home,
To build with subtlest art
In every boundless heart
His high imperial palace, heaven-spann'd,
Whence he may never roam.
Bountiful is our Earth,
For Love hath laid his hand
Under her head, and she,
Embraced voluptuously,
And wonder-joy'd, unto a strange and grand
And gentle life gives birth.
For Love hath laid his hand
Under her head, and she,
Embraced voluptuously,
And wonder-joy'd, unto a strange and grand
And gentle life gives birth.
Heaven-like is our home:
For Love hath blessed Hope,
And given his own pinions unto Toil;
And Joy is as a splendor whose sole foil
Is younger Joy; and Genius hath full scope
To build the Eternal Dome.
For Love hath blessed Hope,
And given his own pinions unto Toil;
And Joy is as a splendor whose sole foil
Is younger Joy; and Genius hath full scope
To build the Eternal Dome.
And happiness is ours;
And over us the spray
Of Time breaks tunefully,
Baptizing us with glee
By God's own hand; and evermore our way
Is strown with flowers.
And over us the spray
Of Time breaks tunefully,
Baptizing us with glee
By God's own hand; and evermore our way
Is strown with flowers.
38
And evermore our way
Is strown with flowers
Is strown with flowers
And the song died away
Amid the echoing showers
Of buds and blossoms children-strown
Over their homeward path. The glance
Of the old stranger rested upon one
Of the flower-children, in advance
Of her companions. She appear'd
Like his own child: and yet he fear'd—
So awful was her loveliness—
To speak unto her; so he stood
Gazing, bewilder'd, in a mood
Of mingled joy and thoughtfulness,
Looking his question;—till she told
How, in the dreariness of old,—
In the world's twilight dim and cold,—
An aged man, her ancestor,
Had fled out of the daily burr
Of dismalest captivity
In Godstone Poorhouse, to the free
Unpathed wilds, wherein 'twas thought
He perish'd, for none gleaned aught
Of his after life:—
And this was he
Who stood before them, wonder-clad,
Their few-hours' visitant. Then had
Full greetings to be poured forth
To pledge the stranger, words of worth,
Heart-words: so went they home. And he
Goes homeward too, how happily!
Not, as of yore, with tiréd heart
And flagging spirit, and foot-sore;
But even as one loath to depart
Out of a pleasant day, whose lore
O' the better wisdom through the dim
Grey eventide will rest with him.
That twilight-clipped happiness
Hath better taught him than the stress
Of a life's penance-wretchedness.
So passeth he to happier hours;
Benigner influences and powers
Of good are round him, to upstay
His limbs and bear him on his way
Rejoicing to the garden bowers.
Amid the echoing showers
Of buds and blossoms children-strown
Over their homeward path. The glance
Of the old stranger rested upon one
Of the flower-children, in advance
Of her companions. She appear'd
Like his own child: and yet he fear'd—
So awful was her loveliness—
To speak unto her; so he stood
Gazing, bewilder'd, in a mood
Of mingled joy and thoughtfulness,
Looking his question;—till she told
How, in the dreariness of old,—
In the world's twilight dim and cold,—
An aged man, her ancestor,
Had fled out of the daily burr
Of dismalest captivity
In Godstone Poorhouse, to the free
Unpathed wilds, wherein 'twas thought
He perish'd, for none gleaned aught
Of his after life:—
39
Who stood before them, wonder-clad,
Their few-hours' visitant. Then had
Full greetings to be poured forth
To pledge the stranger, words of worth,
Heart-words: so went they home. And he
Goes homeward too, how happily!
Not, as of yore, with tiréd heart
And flagging spirit, and foot-sore;
But even as one loath to depart
Out of a pleasant day, whose lore
O' the better wisdom through the dim
Grey eventide will rest with him.
That twilight-clipped happiness
Hath better taught him than the stress
Of a life's penance-wretchedness.
So passeth he to happier hours;
Benigner influences and powers
Of good are round him, to upstay
His limbs and bear him on his way
Rejoicing to the garden bowers.
And for the “Pauper's” memory—
Let it be gently borne till we
Sleep with him, and as peacefully.
Let it be gently borne till we
Sleep with him, and as peacefully.
| Bob-Thin | |