English

Meanwhile the wolfish face,
Resettled to its customary place,
Was staring as before, into the sky,
Stolid. The other woman heavily
Gather'd herself together, bruised, in pain,
Half rose up, slipp'd on something, and again
Sank feebly back upon her hand.
But now
What new emotion shakes her? Doth she know
What this is, that her fingers on the stone
Have felt, and, feeling, close so fiercely on!
This pocket-book? with gold enough within
To feed ... Alas! and must it be a sin

Just then there broke
Down the dim street (and any sound just then,
Shaped from the natural utterance of men,
To still that echoed howl, had brought relief
To her sick senses) a loud shout ... " Stop, thief!
Stop, thief! "
A man rush'd by those women, — rush'd
So vehemently by them, that he brush'd
Their raggedness together, — as he pass'd,
Dropp'd something on the pavement, — and was fast
Wrapp'd in the rainy vapours of the night,
That, in a moment, smear'd him out of sight,
And, in a moment after, let emerge

She who had stumbled on it shrank away
Abasht; not daring, at the first, to say
Such words as, meant for comfort, might have been
Too much like insult to that grim-faced Queen,
Or King, whiche'er it was, of Wretchedness.
Her own much misery seem'd so much less
Than this, flung down before her, — by God sent,
It may have been, for her admonishment.
But, at the last, she timidly drew near
And whisper'd faintly in the creature's ear,
" Have you no home? "
No look even made reply,
Much less a word. But on the stolid sky

Grey and grisly 'neath this sky
Of bitter darkness, gleam'd the long blind wall
Of that grim institute, we English call
The Poor-House.
We build houses for our poor,
Pay poor-rates, — do our best, indeed, to cure
Their general sickness by all special ways,
If not successful, still deserving praise.
Yet misery increases faster still
Than means to feed it, tho' we tax the till
To cram the alms-box. Which is passing strange,
Seeing that this England in the world's wide range

Dark darker grows. The lamps
Of London, flaring thro' the foggy damps,
Glare up and down the grey streets ghostily,
And the long roaring of loud wheels rolls by.
The huge hump-shoulder'd bridge is reach'd. She stops.
The shadowy stream beneath it slides and drops
With sulky sound between the arches old.
She eyed it from the parapet. The cold
Clung to her, creeping up the creepy stream.
The enormous city, like a madman's dream,
Full of strange hummings and unnatural glare,
Beat on her brain. Some Tempter whisper'd,

'T WAS neither day nor night, but both together
Mix'd in a muddy smear of London weather,
And the dull pouring of perpetual
Dim rain was vague, and vast, and over all.

She stray'd on thro' the rain, and thro' the mud,
That did the slop-fed filmy city flood,
Meekly unmindful as are wretches, who,
Accustom'd to discomfortings, pursue
Their paths scarce conscious of the more or less
Of misery mingled with each day's distress.
Albeit the ghostly rag, too thin to call
Even the bodily remnant of a shawl,

Let me alone I prethee in thys Cell,
Entice me not into the Citties hell;
Tempt me not forth this Eden of content,
To tast of that which I shall soone repent:
Prethy excuse me, I am not alone
Accompanied with meditation,
And calme content, whose tast more pleaseth me
Then all the Citties lushious vanity.
I had rather be encoffin'd in this chest
Amongst these bookes and papers I protest,
Then free-booting abroad purchase offence,
And scandale my calme thoughts with discontents.
Heere I conuerse with those diuiner spirits,

What a scald humour is this iealous care,
Which turnes a man to a familiare?
See how Trebatio yonder haunts his wife,
And dares not loose sight of her for his life:
And now there's one speakes to her, mark his grace,
See how he basts himselfe in his owne greace:
Note what a squint askew he casts, as he
Already saw his heads hornd-armory.
Foule weather ielousie to a forward spring,
Makes weeds grow ranke, but spoyles a better thing:
Sowes tares (gainst haruest) in the fields of loue,
And dogged humor Dog-dayes-like doth proue:

Mary and gup! haue I then lost my cap?
It shall be a warning for an after-clap,
Not that I weigh the tributary due,
Of cap and courtship complements, and new
Antike salutes, I care not for th'embrace,
The Spanish shrug, kiss'd-hand, nor cheuerell face,
God saue you sir, good sir , and such like phrases,
Pronounc'd with lisping, and affected graces,
Moue me no more then t'heare a Parrat cry
Her by-roate lesson of like curtesie:
But this I wonder, that th'art so estrang'd,

Heere coms a Coach (my Lads) let's make a stand,
And take a view of blazing starres at hand:
Who's here? who's here? now trust me passing faire,
Thai're most sweet Ladies: mary and so they are.
Why thou young puisne art thou yet to learne,
A harper from a shilling to discerne?
I had thought the last mask which thou caperedst in
Had catechiz'd thee from this errors sinne,
Taught thee S. Martins stuffe from true gold lace,
And know a perfect from a painted face:
Why they are Idols, Puppets, Exchange babies,