Oh, it's not enough those people own the very ground we tread,
And the shelter that we crouch in, and the tools that earn our bread;
They must place their blotted mortgage on the air and on the sky,
And shut out our little heaven, till our children pine and die!
Oh, the air is pure and wholesome where some babies coo and rest,
And they trim them out with ribbons, and they feed them with the best;
But the love they bear is mockery to the gracious God on high,
If to give those children luxuries some one else's child must die!
Oh, we wear the cheapest clothing, and our meals are scant and brief,
And perhaps those fellows fancy there's a cheaper grade of grief;
But the people all around here, losing children, friends, and mates,
Can inform them that Affliction hasn't any under-rates.
I'm no grumbler at the rulers of "this free and happy land,"
And I don't go 'round explaining things I do not understand;
But I know there's something treacherous in the working of the law,
When we get a dose of poison out of every breath we draw.
I have talked too much, good Preacher, and I hope you won't be vexed,
But I'm going to make a sermon with that white face for a text;
And I'll preach it, and I'll preach it, till I set the people wild
O'er the heartless, reckless grasping of the men who killed my child!
[From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.]
Still do I write—day-time and night—
That which I see in my leisurely flight.
What is this sign that is claiming the sight?—
"Lodgings within here, at five cents per night!"
Let me examine this cheap-entered nest,
Pay my five cents, and go in with the rest;
Let me jot down with sly pen, but sincere,
What, in this garret, I see, smell, and hear.
Great, gloomy den! where, on close-clustered shelves,
Shelterless wretches can shelter themselves;
Pestilence-drugged is the murderous air,
Full of the breathings of want and despair!
Horrible place!—where The Crushed Race
Winces 'neath Poverty's dolefullest blight—
Bivouac of suffering, sin, and disgrace:
What can you look for, at five cents per night?
Hustle them in, jostle them in,
Many of nation, and divers of kin;
Sallow, and yellow, and tawny of skin—
Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in!
Handfuls of withered but suffering clay,
Swept from the East by oppression away;
Baffled adventurers, conquered and pressed
Back from the gates of the glittering West;
Men who with indolence, folly, and guile
Carelessly slighted Prosperity's smile;
Men who have struggled 'gainst Destiny's frown,
Inch after inch, till she hunted them down.
Scores in a tier—pile them up here—
Many of peoples and divers of kin;
Drift of the nations, from far and from near,
Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in!
Islands of green, mistily seen,
Hover in visions these sleepers between;
Beautiful memories, cozy and clean,
Restfully precious, and sweetly serene.
Womanly kisses have softened the brow
Lying in drunken bewilderment now;
Infantile faces have cuddled for rest
Here on this savage and rag-covered breast.
Lucky the wretch who, in Poverty's ways,
Bears not the burden of "happier days:"
Many a midnight is gloomier yet
By the remembrance of stars that have set!
Echoes of pain, drearily plain,
Come of old melodies sweet and serene;
Images sad to the heart and the brain
Rise out of memories cozy and green.