Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, CHILDREN OF THE STREET, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

CHILDREN OF THE STREET, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Bright boys vociferous
Last Line: Some vague philosopher.
Subject(s): Child Labor; Great Britain; Newspapers; Poverty; Journalism; Journalists


BRIGHT boys vociferous,
Girl-children clamorous,
Shrill trebles echoing,
Down the long street;
Every day come they there,
Afternoon foul or fair,
Shouting and volleying;
Through wintry winds and cold,
Through summer eves of gold,
Running and clamouring:
Never a day but brings,
Ragged and thinly clad,
Battling with poverty,
Hunger, and wretchedness,
Brave little souls forlorn,
Gaining hard bread.
"Terrible accident;
Frightful explosion, Sir;
News from Australia,
News from America;
Only one halfpenny,
Special edition, Sir,
Echo, Sir, Echo!"

Thus they shout breathlessly,
Dashing and hurrying,
Threading the carriages,
Under the rapid feet;
Frightening the passer-by,
Down the long street:
On till they chance to meet
Some vague philosopher.

* * *

And straightway the hurry,
And bustle, and noise,
Fade away in his thought
Before tranquiller joys.
Here are problems indeed,
Not to solve, it is true,
But on every side filling
The fanciful view;
Which ere he has grasped them
Are vanished and gone,
But leave him in solitude
Never alone:
Thoughts of Fate, and of Life,
And the end of it all,
Of the struggle and strife
Where few rise, many fall;
Thoughts of Country and Empire,
Of Future and Past,
And the centuries gliding
So slow, yet so fast:
Old fancies, yet strange,
Thoughts sad and yet sweet,
Of lives come to harvest,
And lives incomplete;
Of the lingering march,
Of the Infinite plan,
Bringing slowly, yet surely,
The glory of man;
Of our failures and losses,
Our victory and gain;
Of our treasure of hope
And our Present of pain.
And, higher than all,
That these young voices teach
A glowing conviction
Too precious for speech;
That somewhere down deep
In each natural soul
Sacred verities sleep,
Holy waterfloods roll;
That to young lives untaught,
Without friend, without home,
Some gleams of a light
That is heavenlier come;
That to toil which is honest
A voice calls them still,
Which is more than the tempter's
And stronger than ill.

For, poor souls, 'twere better,
If pleasure were all,
Not to strive thus and labour,
But let themselves fall;
They might gain, for a time,
Higher wages than this,
And that sharp zest of sinning
The innocent miss;
They might know fuller life,
And, should fortune befriend,
Escape the Law's pains
From beginning to end;
Or, if they should fail,
What for them does home bring
Which should make of a prison
So dreadful a thing?
These children, whom forma'ists,
Narrow and stern,
Have denied what high principle
Comes from to learn;
To whom this great empire,
Whose records they cry,
Is a book sealed as close
As the ages gone by;
Who bear a name great
Among nations of earth,
But are English alone
By the fortune of birth;
These young mouths that come
To a board well-nigh bare,
Who elsewhere were riches,
But here a grave care.

Great Empire! fast bound
By invisible bands,
That convey to earth's limits
Thy rulers' commands;
Who sittest alone
By thy rude northern sea,
On an ocean-built throne,
The first home of the free,
Whom thy tall chimneys shroud
In a life-giving gloom;
Who clothest mankind
With the work of thy loom;
Who o'er all seas dost send out
Thy deep-laden ships;
Who teachest all nations
The words of thy lips;
Who despatchest thy viceroys
Imperially forth
To the palms of thy East
And the snows of thy North;
Who governest millions
Of dark subtle men
By the might of just laws
And the sword of the pen;
Who art planted wherever
A white foot may tread,
On the poisonous land
Which for ages lies dead;
Who didst nourish the freeman
With milk from thy breast,
To the measureless Commonwealth
Lording the West;
Who holdest to-day
Of those once subject lands
A remnant too mighty
For weaklier hands;
Who in thy isle-continent,
Yearly increased,
Rearest empires of freemen
To sway the far East;
Who art set on lone islets
Of palm and of spice,
On deserts of sand
And on mountains of ice;
Who bring'st Freedom wherever
Thy flag is unfurled:
The exemplar, the envy,
The crown of the World!

What is't thou dost owe
To these young lives of thine,
What else but to foster
This dim spark divine?
Think of myriads like these,
Without teaching or home,
Who with pitiful accents
Beseeching thee come;
Think how Time, whirling on,
Time that never may rest,
Brings the strength of the loins
And the curve of the breast,
Till, with poor minds still childish,
These children are grown
To the age that shall give them
Young lives of their own;
Think of those, who to-day
In the sweet country air
Live, as soulless, almost,
As the birds which they scare;
Think of all those for whom,
To the immature brain,
The dull whirr of the loom
Brings a throbbing of pain;
Think of countless lives fallen,
Sunk, never to rise,
For the lack of the warning
Their country denies, --
Fallen, ruined, and lost,
Through all time that shall be,
Fallen for ever and lost
To themselves and to thee; --
Thou who standest, girt round
By strong foes on each side,
Foes who envy thy greatness,
Thy glory, thy pride;
Thou, who surely shalt need
Heart and soul, brain and hand,
Brain to plan, hand to bleed,
For thy might, O dear land!

* * * *

Till, while slowly he ponders
These thoughts in his brain,
See! there swiftly comes rushing
A young troop again.

"Terrible accident;
Frightful explosion, Sir;
News, Sir, from Germany;
Latest from India;
Special edition, Sir,
Only one half-penny!"
Thus the revoluble
Assonant Echo.

Again they rush breathlessly;
Dashing and hurrying,
Frighting the passer-by,
Shouting and volleying,
Bright boys vociferous,
Girl-children clamorous,
On till they meet again
Some vague philosopher.





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