قراءة كتاب The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P.
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اللغة: English
The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P.
الصفحة رقم: 3
HEART
THE NEW TIMON.
I.
O'er royal London, in luxuriant May,
While lamps yet twinkled, dawning crept the day.
Home from the hell the pale-eyed gamester steals;
Home from the ball flash jaded Beauty's wheels;
The lean grimalkin, who, since night began,
Hath hymn'd to love amidst the wrath of man,
Scared from his raptures by the morning star,
Flits finely by, and threads the area bar;
From fields suburban rolls the early cart;
As rests the revel, so awakes the mart.
Transfusing Mocha from the beans within,
Bright by the crossing gleams the alchemic tin,—
There halts the craftsman; there, with envious sigh,
The houseless vagrant looks, and limps foot-weary by.
While lamps yet twinkled, dawning crept the day.
Home from the hell the pale-eyed gamester steals;
Home from the ball flash jaded Beauty's wheels;
The lean grimalkin, who, since night began,
Hath hymn'd to love amidst the wrath of man,
Scared from his raptures by the morning star,
Flits finely by, and threads the area bar;
From fields suburban rolls the early cart;
As rests the revel, so awakes the mart.
Transfusing Mocha from the beans within,
Bright by the crossing gleams the alchemic tin,—
There halts the craftsman; there, with envious sigh,
The houseless vagrant looks, and limps foot-weary by.
Behold that street,—the Omphalos of Town!
Where the grim palace wears the prison's frown,
As mindful still, amidst a gaudier race,
Of the veil'd Genius of the mournful Place—
Of floors no majesty but Griefs had trod,
And weary limbs that only knelt to God.[A]
Where the grim palace wears the prison's frown,
As mindful still, amidst a gaudier race,
Of the veil'd Genius of the mournful Place—
Of floors no majesty but Griefs had trod,
And weary limbs that only knelt to God.[A]
What tales, what morals, of the elder day—
If stones had language—could that street convey!
Why yell the human bloodhounds panting there?—
To drown the Stuart's last forgiving prayer.[B]
Again the bloodhounds!—whither would they run?
To lick the feet of Stuart's ribald son.
There, through the dusk-red towers, amidst his ring
Of Vans and Mynheers, rode the Dutchman king;
And there—did England's Goneril thrill to hear
The shouts that triumph'd o'er her crownless Lear?
There, where the gaslight streams on Crockford's door,
Bluff Henry chuckled at the jests of More;
There, where you gaze upon the last H. B.,
Swift paused, and mutter'd, "Shall I have that see?"
There, where yon pile, for party's common weal,
Knits votes that serve, with hearts abhorring, Peel,
Blunt Walpole seized, and roughly bought, his man;—
Or, tired of Polly, St. John lounged to Anne.
Well, let the world change on,—still must endure
While Earth is Earth, one changeless race—the Poor!
Within that street, on yonder threshold stone,
What sits as stone-like?—Penury, claim thine own!
She sate, the homeless wanderer,—with calm eyes
Looking through tears, yet lifted to the skies;
Wistful, but patient, sorrowful, but
If stones had language—could that street convey!
Why yell the human bloodhounds panting there?—
To drown the Stuart's last forgiving prayer.[B]
Again the bloodhounds!—whither would they run?
To lick the feet of Stuart's ribald son.
There, through the dusk-red towers, amidst his ring
Of Vans and Mynheers, rode the Dutchman king;
And there—did England's Goneril thrill to hear
The shouts that triumph'd o'er her crownless Lear?
There, where the gaslight streams on Crockford's door,
Bluff Henry chuckled at the jests of More;
There, where you gaze upon the last H. B.,
Swift paused, and mutter'd, "Shall I have that see?"
There, where yon pile, for party's common weal,
Knits votes that serve, with hearts abhorring, Peel,
Blunt Walpole seized, and roughly bought, his man;—
Or, tired of Polly, St. John lounged to Anne.
Well, let the world change on,—still must endure
While Earth is Earth, one changeless race—the Poor!
Within that street, on yonder threshold stone,
What sits as stone-like?—Penury, claim thine own!
She sate, the homeless wanderer,—with calm eyes
Looking through tears, yet lifted to the skies;
Wistful, but patient, sorrowful, but