The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P.

THE POEMS OF SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON, BAR T .
The slight plank creaks—high mount the waves and high, Hark! with the tempest's shrieks the human cry! Upon the bridge but one man now!——
THE NEW TIMON.
In this collection of the Author's Poems will be found some not before printed, and some entirely re-written from the more imperfect productions of earlier years. Few, if any, that have previously appeared, have escaped revision and alteration.
I.
O'er royal London, in luxuriant May, While lamps yet twinkled, dawning crept the day. Home from the hell the pale-eyed gamester steals; Home from the ball flash jaded Beauty's wheels; The lean grimalkin, who, since night began, Hath hymn'd to love amidst the wrath of man, Scared from his raptures by the morning star, Flits finely by, and threads the area bar; From fields suburban rolls the early cart; As rests the revel, so awakes the mart. Transfusing Mocha from the beans within, Bright by the crossing gleams the alchemic tin,— There halts the craftsman; there, with envious sigh, The houseless vagrant looks, and limps foot-weary by.
Now, as the houseless sate, and up the sky Dawn to day strengthen'd, pass'd a stranger by: He saw and halted;—she beheld him not— All round them slept, and silence wrapt the spot. To this new-comer Nature had denied The gifts that graced the outcast crouch'd beside: With orient suns his cheek was swarth and grim, And low the form, though lightly shaped the limb; Yet life glow'd vigorous in that deep-set eye, With a calm force that dared you to defy; And the strong foot was planted on the stone Firm as a gnome's upon his mountain throne; Simple his garb, yet what the wealthy wear, And conscious power gave lordship to his air.
Lone in the Babel thus the maid and man; Long he gazed silent, and at last began: Poor homeless outcast—dost thou see me stand Close by thy side, yet beg not? Stretch thy hand. The voice was stern, abrupt, yet full and deep: The outcast heard, and started as from sleep, And meekly rose, and stretch'd the hand and sought To murmur thanks—the murmur fail'd the thought. He took the slight thin hand within his own: This hand hath nought of honest labour known; And yet methinks thou'rt honest!—speak, my child. And his face broke to beauty as it smiled. But her unconscious eyes, cast down the while, Met not the heart that open'd in the smile: Again the murmur rose, and died in air. Nay, what thy mother and her home, and where? Lo, with those words, the rigid ice that lay Layer upon layer within, dissolves away, And tears come rushing from o'erchargèd eyes:— There is my mother—there her home—the skies! Oh, in that burst, what depth of lone distress! O desolation of the motherless! Yet through the anguish how survived the trust, Home in the skies, though in the grave the dust! The man was moved, and silence fell again; Upsprung the sun—Light re-assumed the reign;— Love ruled on high! Below, the twain that share Men's builded empires—Mammon and Despair!