4454089Poems — Song of the Spirit of PovertyEliza Cook
SONG OF THE SPIRIT OF POVERTY.
A song, a song, for the beldame Queen, A Queen that the world knows well; Whose portal of state is the workhouse gate; And throne, the prison cell.
I have been crown'd in every land With nightshade steep'd in tears; I've a dog-gnawn bone for my sceptre wand; Which the proudest mortal fears.
No gem I wear in my tangled hair, No golden vest I own; No radiant glow tints cheek or brow; Yet say, who dares my frown?
Oh! I am Queen of a ghastly court, And tyrant sway I hold; Baiting human hearts for my royal sport With the bloodhounds of Hunger and Cold.
My power can change the purest clay From its first and beautiful mould; Till it hideth from the face of day, Too hideous to behold.
Mark ye the wretch that has cloven and cleft The skull of the lonely one; And quail'd not at purpling his blade to the heft, To make sure that the deed was done:
Fair seeds were sown in his infant breast, That held goodly blossom and fruit; But I trampled them down—Man did the rest— And God's image grew into the brute.
He hath been driven, and hunted, and scourged, For the sin I bade him do; He hath wrought the lawless work I urged, Till blood seem'd fair to his view.
I shriek with delight to see him bedight In fetters that chink and gleam; "He is mine!" I shout, as they lead him out From the dungeon to the beam.
See the lean boy clutch his rough-hewn crutch With limbs all warp'd and worn; While he hurries along through a noisy throng, The theme of their gibing scorn.
Wealth and Care would have rear'd him straight As the towering, mountain pine; But I nursed him into that halting gait And wither'd his marrowless spine.
Pain may be heard on the downy bed, Heaving the groan of despair; For suffering shuns not the diadem'd head, And abideth everywhere.
But the shorten'd breath and parching lip Are watched by many an eye; And there is balmy drink to sip, And tender hands to ply.
Come, come with me, and ye shall see What a child of mine can bear; Where squalid shadows thicken the light, And foulness taints the air.
He lieth alone to gasp and moan, While the cancer eats his flesh; With the old rags festering on his wound, For none will give him fresh.
Oh! carry him forth in a blanket robe, The lazar-house is nigh; The careless hand shall cut and probe, And strangers see him die.
Where's the escutcheon of blazon'd worth? Who is heir to the famed, rich man? Ha ha! he is mine—dig a hole in the earth, And hide him as soon as ye can.
Oh, I am Queen of a ghastly Court, And the handmaids that I keep, Are such phantom things as Fever brings To haunt the fitful sleep.
See, see, they come in my haggard train, With jagged and matted locks Hanging round them as rough as the wild steed's mane, Or the black weed on the rocks.
They come with broad and horny palms, They come in maniac guise, With angled chins, and yellow skins, And hollow staring eyes.
They come to be girded with leather and link, And away at my bidding they go, To toil where the soul-less beast would shrink, In the deep, damp caverns below.
Daughters of Beauty, they, like ye, Are of gentle womankind,— And wonder not if little there be Of angel form and mind:
If I'd held your cheeks by as close a pinch, Would that flourishing rose be found? If I'd doled you a crust out, inch by inch, Would your arms have been so round?
Oh, I am Queen with a despot rule, That crushes to the dust; The laws I deal bear no appeal, Though ruthless and unjust.
I deaden the bosom and darken the brain, With the might of a demon's skill; The heart may struggle, but struggle in vain. As I grapple it harder still.
Oh, come with me, and ye shall see How well I begin the day; For I'll hie to the hungriest slave I have, And snatch his loaf away.
Oh, come with me, and ye shall see How my skeleton victims fall; How I order the graves without a stone, And the coffins without a pall.
Then a song, a song for the beldame Queen— A Queen that ye fear right well; For my portal of state is the workhouse gate, And my throne, the prison cell.
