Elizabeth Barrett Browning — 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.