Читать книгу Poems. Volume 1 - George Meredith - Страница 32

There stands a singer in the street,

He has an audience motley and meet;

Above him lowers the London night,

And around the lamps are flaring bright.

His minstrelsy may be unchaste—

’Tis much unto that motley taste,

And loud the laughter he provokes

From those sad slaves of obscene jokes.

But woe is many a passer by

Who as he goes turns half an eye,

To see the human form divine

Thus Circe-wise changed into swine!

Make up the sum of either sex

That all our human hopes perplex,

With those unhappy shapes that know

The silent streets and pale cock-crow.

And can I trace in such dull eyes

Of fireside peace or country skies?

And could those haggard cheeks presume

To memories of a May-tide bloom?

Those violated forms have been

The pride of many a flowering green;

And still the virgin bosom heaves

With daisy meads and dewy leaves.

But stygian darkness reigns within

The river of death from the founts of sin;

And one prophetic water rolls

Its gas-lit surface for their souls.

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 God’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 breasts

With poisonous words and pungent jests.

O how would every daisy blush

To see them ’mid that earthy crush!

O dumb would be the evening thrush,

And hoary look the hawthorn bush!

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, blushing 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,