A VISION IN THE STRAND

The jaded light of late July

Shone yellow down the dusty Strand,

The anxious people bustled by,

Policeman, Pressman, you and I,

And thieves, and judges of the land.

So swift they strode they had not time

To mark the humours of the Town,

But I, that mused an idle rhyme,

Looked here and there, and up and down,

And many a rapid cart I spied

That drew, as fast as ponies can,

The Newspapers of either side,

These joys of every Englishman!

The Standard here, the Echo there,

And cultured ev'ning papers fair,

With din and fuss and shout and blare

Through all the eager land they bare,

The rumours of our little span.

‘ Midst these, but ah, more slow of speed,

A biggish box of sanguine hue

Was tugged on a velocipede,

And in and out the crowd, and through,

An earnest stripling urged it well

Perched on a cranky tricycle!

The paper carts fled fleetly by

And vanished up the roaring Strand,

And eager purchasers drew nigh

Each with his penny in his hand,

But JUSTICE, scarce more fleet than I,

Began to permeate the land,

And dark, methinks, the twilight fell,

Or ever JUSTICE reached Pall Mall.

Oh Man, ( I stopped to moralize,)

How eager thou to fight with Fate,

To bring Astraea from the skies;

Yet ah, how too inadequate

The means by which thou fain wouldst cope

With Laws and Morals, King and Pope!

“JUSTICE!” — how prompt the witling's sneer, -

“Justice! Thou wouldst have Justice here!

And each poor man should be a squire,

Each with his competence a year,

Each with sufficient beef and beer,

And all things matched to his desire,

While all the Middle Classes should

With every vile Capitalist

Be clean reformed away for good,

And vanish like a morning mist!

“Ah splendid Vision, golden time,

An end of hunger, cold, and crime.

An end of Rent, an end of Rank,

An end of balance at the Bank,

An end of everything that's meant

To bring Investors five per cent!”

How fair doth Justice seem, I cried,

Yet oh, how strong the embattled powers

That war against on every side

Justice, and this great dream of ours,

And what have we to plead our cause

‘ Gainst Masters, Capital, and laws,

What but a big red box indeed,

With copies of a weekly screed,

That's slowly jolted, up and down,

Behind an old velocipede

To clamour JUSTICE through the town:

How touchingly inadequate

These arms wherewith we'd vanquish Fate!

Nay, the old Order shall endure

And little change the years shall know,

And still the Many shall be poor,

And still the Poor shall dwell in woe;

Firm in the iron Law of things

The strong shall be the wealthy still,

And ( called Capitalists or Kings )

Shall seize and hoard the fruits of skill.

Leaving the weaker for their gain,

Leaving the gentler for their prize

Such dens and husks as beasts disdain, -

Till slowly from the wrinkled skies

The fireless frozen Sun shall wane,

Nor Summer come with golden grain;

Till men be glad, mid frost and snow

To live such equal lives of pain

As now the hutted Eskimo!

Then none shall plough nor garner seed,

Then, on some last sad human shore,

Equality shall reign indeed,

The Rich shall be with us no more,

Thus, and not otherwise, shall come

The new, the true Millennium!