And, maybe, witless votes. Poor London dreams
Of—many things most horrible to WEMYSS!
The nightmare-incubus of old abuse
Propertied privilege, expense profuse
Of many lives for one, the dead-hand's grip
On the slow generations, the sharp whip
Of a compulsory poverty, the gloom
Of that high-rated den, miscalled a Home!
All these it knows, and many miseries more,
And dreams of—Betterment! You'll "never let die.