Lays and Legends (Second Series). Nesbit Edith

      Squalid street after squalid street,

      Endless rows of them, each the same,

      Black dust under your weary feet,

      Dust upon every face you meet,

      Dust in their hearts, too, – or so it seems —

      Dust in the place of dreams.

      Spring in her beauty thrills and thrives,

      Here men hardly have heard her name.

      Work is the end and aim of their lives —

      Work, work, work! for their children and wives;

      Work for a life which, when it is won,

      Is the saddest thing 'neath the sun!

      Work – one dark and incessant round

      In black dull workshops, out of the light;

      Work that others' ease may abound,

      Work that delight for them may be found,

      Work without hope, without pause, without peace,

      That only in death can cease.

      Brothers, who live glad lives in the sun,

      What of these men, at work in the night?

      God will ask you what you have done;

      Their lives be required of you – every one —

      Ye, who were glad and who liked life well,

      While they did your work – in hell!

      In all my work, in all the children's play,

      I hear the ceaseless hum of London near;

      It cries to me, I cannot choose but hear

      Its never-ending wail, by night and day.

      So many millions – is it vain to pray

      That all may win such peace as I have here,

      With books, and work, and little children dear? —

      That flowers like mine may grow along their way?

      Through all my happy life I hear the cry,

      The exceeding bitter cry of human pain,

      And shudder as the deathless wail sweeps by.

      I can do nothing – even hope is vain

      That the bright light of peace and purity

      In those lost souls may ever shine again!

      'Mid pine woods' whisper and the hum of bees

      I heard a voice that was not bee nor wood:

      Here, in the city, Gold has trampled Good.

      Come thou, do battle till this strife shall cease!"

      I left the mill, the meadows and the trees,

      And came to do the little best I could

      For these, God's poor; and, oh, my God, I would

      I had a thousand lives to give for these!

      What can one hand do 'gainst a world of wrong?

      Yet, when the voice said, "Come!" how could I stay?

      The foe is mighty, and the battle long

      (And love is sweet, and there are flowers in May),

      And Good seems weak, and Gold is very strong;

      But, while these fight, I dare not turn away.

      Throb, throb, throb, weariness, ache, and pain!

      One's heart and one's eyes on fire,

      And never a spark in one's brain.

      The stupid paper and ink,

      That might be turned into gold,

      Lie here unused

      Since one's brain refused

      To do its tricks – as of old.

      One can suffer still, indeed,

      But one cannot think any more.

      There's no fire in the grate,

      No food on the plate,

      And the East-wind shrieks through the door.

      The sunshine grins in the street:

      It used to cheer me like wine,

      Now it only quickens my brain's sick beat;

      And the children are crying for bread to eat

      And I cannot write a line!

      Molly, my pet – don't cry,

      Father can't write if you do —

      And anyhow, if you only knew,

      It's hard enough as it is.

      There, give old daddy a kiss,

      And cuddle down on the floor;

      We'll have some dinner by-and-by.

      Now, fool, try! Try once more!

      Hold your head tight in your hands,

      Bring your will to bear!

      The children are starving – your little ones —

      While you sit fooling there.

      Beth, with her golden hair;

      Moll, with her rough, brown head —

      Here they are – see!

      Against your knee,

      Waiting there to be fed! —

      I cannot bear their eyes.

      Their soft little kisses burn —

      They will cry again

      In vain, in vain,

      For the food that I cannot earn.

      If I could only write

      Just a dozen pages or so

      On "The Prospects of Trade,"

      or "The Irish Question,"

      or "Why are Wages so Low?" —

      The printers are waiting for copy now,

      I've had my next week's screw,

      There'll be nothing more till I've written something,

      Oh, God! what am I to do?

      If I could only write!

      The paper glares up white

      Like the cursed white of the heavy stone

      Under which she lies alone;

      And the ink is black like death,

      And the room and the window are black.

      Molly, Molly – the sun's gone out,

      Cannot you fetch it back?

      Did I frighten my little ones?

      Never mind, daddy dropped asleep —

      Cuddle

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