Classic Poem

The deep night fell o'er London,
With its riot and bustle and din—
It fell o'er the streets of the city;
It fell o'er the haunts of sin.
Were there none with hearts of pity
To take the poor wayfarer in?

She walked through Christian London,
Wretched, bare-footed, forlorn;
With pleading, hunger-pinched features—
With aspect weary and worn;
And the wild March blast, as it hurried past,
Fluttered her raiment torn.

No home in all wide London!
She shrank from the chilly air;
She drew her tattered mantle
Round her shoulders cold and bare,
And from the beat of the rain and sleet
She crouched on the lonely stair.

And through the streets of London
The heedless crowd went on;
No eye saw the friendless woman,
No ear heard her piteous moan;
No kindly heart that was human
Cared for the homeless one!

Death stalked through the streets of London,
But less unkind was he;
He saw the woman lying
In her lonesome misery:
He took her hand, and in accents bland
Said, ‘Come along with me!’

Day dawned on stately London!
The sun shone warm and bright
On the woman's crouching figure,
In its melancholy plight—
On her garments torn and meagre,
On her features still and white.

Starved in the streets of London!
Yet mayhap a mother has smiled
In the old-time days of happiness
In the laughing eyes of a child;—
Those eyes that now glare with a stony stare,
And gleam with a radiance wild.

Starved in the streets of London—
Midst its wealth and the ceaseless swell
Of its trade and its commerce rising high
To the heavens! O ye who dwell
In the midst of riches and luxury,
Say—Is it well? is it well?