Classic Poem

A LONDON LYRIC .

( WITHOUT .)

The winds are bitter; the skies are wild;
From the roof comes plunging the drowning rain:
Without, — in taiters, the world's poor child
Sobbeth abroad her grief, her pain!
No one heareth her, no one heedeth her:
But Hunger, her friend, with his bony hand,
Grasps her throat, whispering huskily —
" What dost Thou in a Christian land? "

( WITHIN .)

The skies are wild, and the blast is cold:
Yet riot and luxury brawl within:
Slaves are waiting, in crimson and gold,
Waiting the nod of a child of sin.
The fire is crackling, wine is bubbling
Up in each glass to its beaded brim:
The jesters are laughing, the parasites quaffing
" Happiness, " — " honour, " — and all for him !

( WITHOUT .)

She who is slain in the winter weather,
Ah! she once had a village fame;
Listened to love on the moonliTheather;
Had gentleness — vanity — maiden shame:
Now , her allies are the Tempest howling;
Prodigal's curses; self-disdain;
Poverty; misery: Well, — no matter;
There is an end unto every pain!

The harlot's fame was her doom to-day,
Disdain, — despair; by to-morrow's light
The ragged boards and the pauper's pall;
And so she 'll be given to dusty night!
... Without a tear or a human sigh,
She's gone, — poor life and its " fever " o'er!
So, leTher in calm oblivion lie;
While the world runs merry as heretofore!

( WITHIN .)

He who yon lordly feast enjoyeth,
He who doth rest on his couch of down,
He it was, who threw the forsaken
Under the feet of the trampling town:
Liar — betrayer, — false as cruel,
What is the doom for his dastard sin?
His peers, they scorn? — high dames, they shun him?
— Unvar yon palace, and gaze within.

There, — yet his deeds are all trumpet-sounded,
There, upon silken seats recline
Maidens as fair as the summer morning,
Watching him rise from the sparkling wine.
Mothers all proffer their stainless daughters;
Men of high honour salute him " friend; "
Skies! oh, where are your cleansing waters?
World! oh, where do thy wonders end?