A SONG FOR THE RAGGED SCHOOL OF LONDON.

I am listening here in Rome.

“England's strong,” say many speakers,

“If she winks, the Czar must come,

Prow and topsail, to the breakers.”

“England's rich in coal and oak,”

Adds a Roman, getting moody;

“If she shakes a travelling cloak,

Down our Appian roll the scudi.”

“England's righteous,” they rejoin:

“Who shall grudge her exaltations

When her wealth of golden coin

Works the welfare of the nations?”

I am listening here in Rome.

Over Alps a voice is sweeping —

“England's cruel, save us some

Of these victims in her keeping!”

As the cry beneath the wheel

Of an old triumphant Roman

Cleft the people's shouts like steel,

While the show was spoilt for no man,

Comes that voice. Let others shout,

Other poets praise my land here:

I am sadly sitting out,

Praying, “God forgive her grandeur.”

Shall we boast of empire, where

Time with ruin sits commissioned?

In God's liberal blue air

Peter's dome itself looks wizened;

And the mountains, in disdain,

Gather back their lights of opal

From the dumb despondent plain

Heaped with jawbones of a people.

Lordly English, think it o'er,

Caesar's doing is all undone!

You have cannons on your shore,

And free Parliaments in London;

Princes’ parks, and merchants’ homes,

Tents for soldiers, ships for seamen,—

Ay, but ruins worse than Rome's

In your pauper men and women.

Women leering through the gas

( Just such bosoms used to nurse you ),

Men, turned wolves by famine — pass!

Those can speak themselves, and curse you.

But these others — children small,

Spilt like blots about the city,

Quay, and street, and palace-wall —

Take them up into your pity!

Ragged children with bare feet,

Whom the angels in white raiment

Know the names of, to repeat

When they come on you for payment.

Ragged children, hungry-eyed,

Huddled up out of the coldness

On your doorsteps, side by side,

Till your footman damns their boldness.

In the alleys, in the squares,

Begging, lying little rebels;

In the noisy thoroughfares,

Struggling on with piteous trebles.

Patient children — think what pain

Makes a young child patient — ponder!

Wronged too commonly to strain

After right, or wish, or wonder.

Wicked children, with peaked chins,

And old foreheads! there are many

With no pleasures except sins,

Gambling with a stolen penny.

Sickly children, that whine low

To themselves and not their mothers,

From mere habit,— never so

Hoping help or care from others.

Healthy children, with those blue

English eyes, fresh from their Maker,

Fierce and ravenous, staring through

At the brown loaves of the baker.

I am listening here in Rome,

And the Romans are confessing,

“English children pass in bloom

All the prettiest made for blessing.

“Angli angeli!” ( resumed

From the mediaeval story )

“Such rose angelhoods, emplumed

In such ringlets of pure glory!”

Can we smooth down the bright hair,

O my sisters, calm, unthrilled in

Our heart's pulses? Can we bear

The sweet looks of our own children,

While those others, lean and small,

Scurf and mildew of the city,

Spot our streets, convict us all

Till we take them into pity?

“Is it our fault?” you reply,

“When, throughout civilization,

Every nation's empery

Is asserted by starvation?

“All these mouths we cannot feed,

And we cannot clothe these bodies.”

Well, if man's so hard indeed,

Let them learn at least what God is!

Little outcasts from life's fold,

The grave's hope they may be joined in

By Christ's covenant consoled

For our social contract's grinding.

If no better can be done,

Let us do but this,— endeavour

That the sun behind the sun

Shine upon them while they shiver!

On the dismal London flags,

Through the cruel social juggle,

Put a thought beneath their rags

To ennoble the heart's struggle.

O my sisters, not so much

Are we asked for — not a blossom

From our children's nosegay, such

As we gave it from our bosom,—

Not the milk left in their cup,

Not the lamp while they are sleeping,

Not the little cloak hung up

While the coat's in daily keeping,—

But a place in RAGGED SCHOOLS,

Where the outcasts may to-morrow

Learn by gentle words and rules

Just the uses of their sorrow.

O my sisters! children small,

Blue-eyed, wailing through the city —

Our own babes cry in them all:

Let us take them into pity.