A Song for the Ragged Schools of London
I.
I am listening here in Rome.
       &nbsp“England’s strong,” say many speakers,
“If she winks, the Czar must come,
       &nbspProw and topsail, to the breakers.”

II.
“England’s rich in coal and oak,”
       &nbspAdds a Roman, getting moody;
“If she shakes a travelling cloak,
       &nbspDown our Appian roll the scudi.”

III.
“England’s righteous,” they rejoin:
       &nbsp“Who shall grudge her exaltations
When her wealth of golden coin
       &nbspWorks the welfare of the nations?”

IV.
I am listening here in Rome.
       &nbspOver Alps a voice is sweeping—
“England’s cruel, save us some
       &nbspOf these victims in her keeping!”
V.
As the cry beneath the wheel
       &nbspOf an old triumphant Roman
Cleft the people’s shouts like steel,
       &nbspWhile the show was spoilt for no man,

VI.
Comes that voice. Let others shout,
       &nbspOther poets praise my land here:
I am sadly sitting out,
       &nbspPraying, “God forgive her grandeur.”

VII.
Shall we boast of empire, where
       &nbspTime with ruin sits commissioned?
In God’s liberal blue air
       &nbspPeter’s dome itself looks wizened;

VIII.
And the mountains, in disdain,
       &nbspGather back their lights of opal
From the dumb despondent plain
       &nbspHeaped with jawbones of a people.

IX.
Lordly English, think it o’er,
       &nbspCæsar’s doing is all undone!
You have cannons on your shore,
       &nbspAnd free Parliaments in London;
X.
Princes’ parks, and merchants’ homes,
       &nbspTents for soldiers, ships for seamen,—
Ay, but ruins worse than Rome’s
       &nbspIn your pauper men and women.

XI.
Women leering through the gas
       &nbsp(Just such bosoms used to nurse you),
Men, turned wolves by famine—pass!
       &nbspThose can speak themselves, and curse you.


XII.
But these others—children small,
       &nbspSpilt like blots about the city,
Quay, and street, and palace-wall—
       &nbspTake them up into your pity!

XIII.
Ragged children with bare feet,
       &nbspWhom the angels in white raiment
Know the names of, to repeat
       &nbspWhen they come on you for payment.

XIV.
Ragged children, hungry-eyed,
       &nbspHuddled up out of the coldness
On your doorsteps, side by side,
       &nbspTill your footman damns their boldness.
XV.
In the alleys, in the squares,
       &nbspBegging, lying little rebels;
In the noisy thoroughfares,
       &nbspStruggling on with piteous trebles.

XVI.
Patient children—think what pain
       &nbspMakes a young child patient—ponder!
Wronged too commonly to strain
       &nbspAfter right, or wish, or wonder.

XVII.
Wicked children, with peaked chins,
       &nbspAnd old foreheads! there are many
With no pleasures except sins,
       &nbspGambling with a stolen penny.

XVIII.
Sickly children, that whine low
       &nbspTo themselves and not their mothers,
From mere habit,—never so
       &nbspHoping help or care from others.

XIX.
Healthy children, with those blue
       &nbspEnglish eyes, fresh from their Maker,
Fierce and ravenous, staring through
       &nbspAt the brown loaves of the baker.

XX.
I am listening here in Rome,
       &nbspAnd the Romans are confessing,
“English children pass in bloom
       &nbspAll the prettiest made for blessing.

XXI.
“Angli angeli!” (resumed
       &nbspFrom the mediæval story)
“Such rose angelhoods, emplumed
       &nbspIn such ringlets of pure glory!”

XXII.
Can we smooth down the bright hair,
       &nbspO my sisters, calm, unthrilled in
Our heart’s pulses? Can we bear
       &nbspThe sweet looks of our own children,

XXIII.
While those others, lean and small,
       &nbspScurf and mildew of the city,
Spot our streets, convict us all
       &nbspTill we take them into pity?

XXIV.
“Is it our fault?” you reply,
       &nbsp“When, throughout civilization,
Every nation’s empery
       &nbspIs asserted by starvation?

XXV.
“All these mouths we cannot feed,
       &nbspAnd we cannot clothe these bodies.”
Well, if man’s so hard indeed,
       &nbspLet them learn at least what God is!

XXVI.
Little outcasts from life’s fold,
       &nbspThe grave’s hope they may be joined in
By Christ’s covenant consoled
       &nbspFor our social contract’s grinding.

XXVII.
If no better can be done,
       &nbspLet us do but this,—endeavour
That the sun behind the sun
       &nbspShine upon them while they shiver!

XXVIII.
On the dismal London flags,
       &nbspThrough the cruel social juggle,
Put a thought beneath their rags
       &nbspTo ennoble the heart’s struggle.

XXIX.
O my sisters, not so much
       &nbspAre we asked for—not a blossom
From our children’s nosegay, such
       &nbspAs we gave it from our bosom,—

XXX.
Not the milk left in their cup,
       &nbspNot the lamp while they are sleeping,
Not the little cloak hung up
       &nbspWhile the coat’s in daily keeping,—

XXXI.
But a place in Ragged Schools,
       &nbspWhere the outcasts may to-morrow
Learn by gentle words and rules
       &nbspJust the uses of their sorrow.

XXXII.
O my sisters! children small,
       &nbspBlue-eyed, wailing through the city—
Our own babes cry in them all:
       &nbspLet us take them into pity.