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George Meredith - London By Lamplight
Work rating: Low

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, 
As shall awake this startled night? 

Proclaim this evil human page 
Will ever blot the Golden Age 
That poets dream and saints invite, 
If it be unredeemed this night? 

This night of deep solemnity, 
And verdurous serenity, 
While over every fleecy field 
The dews descend and odours yield. 

This night of gleaming floods and falls, 
Of forest glooms and sylvan calls, 
Of starlight on the pebbly rills, 
And twilight on the circling hills. 

This night! when from the paths of men 
Grey error steams as from a fen; 
As o`er this flaring City wreathes 
The black cloud-vapour that it breathes! 

This night from which a morn will spring 
Blooming on its orient wing; 
A morn to roll with many more 
Its ghostly foam on the twilight shore. 

Morn! when the fate of all mankind 
Hangs poised in doubt, and man is blind. 
His duties of the day will seem 
The fact of life, and mine the dream: 

The destinies that bards have sung, 
Regeneration to the young, 
Reverberation of the truth, 
And virtuous culture unto youth! 

Youth! in whose season let abound 
All flowers and fruits that strew the ground, 
Voluptuous joy where love consents, 
And health and pleasure pitch their tents: 

All rapture and all pure delight; 
A garden all unknown to blight; 
But never the unnatural sight 
That throngs the shameless song this night!
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