Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SONG OF THE SPIRIT OF POVERTY, by ELIZA COOK


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SONG OF THE SPIRIT OF POVERTY, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: A song, a song, for the beldame queen
Last Line: And my throne the prison cell.
Subject(s): Poverty; Social Problems


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 crowned in every land,
With nightshade steeped 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 who has cloven and cleft
The skull of the lonely one,
And quailed not at purpling his blade to the haft,
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 seemed 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-bewn crutch,
With limbs all warped and worn,
While he hurries along through a noisy throng,
The theme of their gibing scorn.

Wealth and Care would have reared him straight
As the towering mountain pine,
But I nursed him into that halting gait,
And withered his marrowless spine.

Pain may be heard on a downy bed,
Heaving the groan of despair,
For Suffering shuns not the diademed head
And abideth everywhere.

But the shortened 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 blazoned 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 soulless 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 the 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.





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