Grim cicerone of the towns of sin,
From thy rank drops, the germs of crime and lust,
Nurtured by sloth and hatred of the just,
In bestial minds to awful bloom begin.

Dulling all confidence in God or kin,
Thy woeful specter on humanity thrust,
Invokes sad pictures of supreme disgust,
A yelling harlot, or a bagnio's din.

I hear in St. Giles' slums, the dread
And blasphemous cries of ruffians in mad strife,
And, the shocked eye by odious magic led,
Sees in some garret, panting still with life,
A half-starved child clasping a woman, dead,
While o'er them leers a gaunt brute with a knife!