Volume I Part 8 (2/2)
I will not hide the tragic sight - Those drown'd black locks, those dead lips white, Will rise from out the slimy flood, And cry before G.o.d's throne for blood!
Those stiffened limbs, that swollen face, - Pollution's last and best embrace, Will call, as such a picture can, For retribution upon man.
Hark! how their feeble laughter rings, While still the ballad-monger sings, And flatters their unhappy b.r.e.a.s.t.s With poisonous words and pungent jests.
O how would every daisy blush To see them 'mid that earthy crus.h.!.+
O dumb would be the evening thrush, And h.o.a.ry look the hawthorn bus.h.!.+
The meadows of their infancy Would shrink from them, and every tree, And every little laughing spot, Would hush itself and know them not.
Precursor to what black despairs Was that child's face which once was theirs!
And O to what a world of guile Was herald that young angel smile!
That face which to a father's eye Was balm for all anxiety; That smile which to a mother's heart Went swifter than the swallow's dart!
O happy homes! that still they know At intervals, with what a woe Would ye look on them, dim and strange, Suffering worse than winter change!
And yet could I transplant them there, To breathe again the innocent air Of youth, and once more reconcile Their outcast looks with nature's smile;
Could I but give them one clear day Of this delicious loving May, Release their souls from anguish dark, And stand them underneath the lark; -
I think that Nature would have power To graft again her blighted flower Upon the broken stem, renew Some portion of its early hue; -
The heavy flood of tears unlock, More precious than the Scriptured rock; At least instil a happier mood, And bring them back to womanhood.
Alas! how many lost ones claim This refuge from despair and shame!
How many, longing for the light, Sink deeper in the abyss this night!
O, crying sin! O, blus.h.i.+ng thought!
Not only unto those that wrought The misery and deadly blight; But those that outcast them this night!
O, agony of grief! for who Less dainty than his race, will do Such battle for their human right, As shall awake this startled night?
Proclaim this evil human page Will ever blot the Golden Age That poets dream and saints invite, If it be unredeemed this night?
This night of deep solemnity, And verdurous serenity, While over every fleecy field The dews descend and odours yield.
This night of gleaming floods and falls, Of forest glooms and sylvan calls, Of starlight on the pebbly rills, And twilight on the circling hills.
This night! when from the paths of men Grey error steams as from a fen; As o'er this flaring City wreathes The black cloud-vapour that it breathes!
This night from which a morn will spring Blooming on its orient wing; A morn to roll with many more Its ghostly foam on the twilight sh.o.r.e.
Morn! when the fate of all mankind Hangs poised in doubt, and man is blind.
<script>