Elizabeth Barrett Browning - A Song for the Ragged Schools of London lyrics
[Elizabeth Barrett Browning - A Song for the Ragged Schools of London lyrics]
I am listening here in Rome
"England’s strong, " say many speakers
"If she winks, the Czar must come
Prow and topsail, to the breakers"
"England’s rich in coal and oak, "
Adds a Roman, getting moody
"If she shakes a travelling cloak
Down our Appian roll the scudi"
"England’s righteous, " they rejoin:
"Who shall grudge her exaltations
When her wealth of golden coin
Works the welfare of the nations?"
I am listening here in Rome
Over Alps a voice is sweeping
"England’s cruel, save us some
Of these victims in her keeping!"
As the cry beneath the wheel
Of an old triumphant Roman
Cleft the people’s shouts like steel
While the show was spoilt for no man
Comes that voice let others shout
Other poets praise my land here:
I am sadly sitting out
Praying, "God forgive her grandeur"
Shall we boast of empire, where
Time with ruin sit's commissioned?
In God’s liberal blue air
Peter’s dome it'self looks wizened
And the mountains, in disdain
Gather back their lights of opal
From the dumb despondent plain
Heaped with jawbones of a people
Lordly English, think it o’er
Cæsar’s doing is all undone!
You have cannons on your shore
And free Parliaments in London
Princes’ parks, and merchants’ homes
Tents for soldiers, ships for seamen
Ay, but ruins worse than Rome’s
In your pauper men and women
Women leering through the gas
(Just such bosoms used to nurse you)
Men, turned wolves by famine pass!
Those can speak themselves
And curse you
But these others children small
Spilt like blots about the city
Quay, and street, and palace-wall
Take them up into your pity!
Ragged children with bare feet
Whom the angels in white raiment
Know the names of, to repeat
When they come on you for payment
Ragged children, hungry-eyed
Huddled up out of the coldness
On your doorsteps, side by side
Till your footman damns their boldness
In the alleys, in the squares
Begging, lying little rebels
In the noisy thoroughfares
Struggling on with piteous trebles
Patient children think what pain
Makes a young child patient ponder!
Wronged too commonly to strain
After right, or wish, or wonder
Wicked children, with peaked chins
And old foreheads! there are many
With no pleasures except sins
Gambling with a stolen penny
Sickly children, that whine low
To themselves and not their mothers
From mere habit, never so
Hoping help or care from others
Healthy children, with those blue
English eyes, fresh from their Maker
Fierce and ravenous, staring through
At the brown loaves of the baker
I am listening here in Rome
And the Romans are confessing
"English children pass in bloom
All the prettiest made for blessing
"Angli angeli!" (resumed
From the mediæval story)
"Such rose angelhoods, emplumed
In such ringlets of pure glory!"
Can we smooth down the bright hair
O my sisters, calm, unthrilled in
Our heart’s pulses? Can we bear
The sweet looks of our own children
While those others, lean and small
Scurf and mildew of the city
Spot our streets, convict us all
Till we take them into pity?
"Is it our fault?" you reply
"When, throughout civilization
Every nation’s empery
Is asserted by starvation?
"All these mouths we cannot feed
And we cannot clothe these bodies"
Well, if man’s so hard indeed
Let them learn at least what God is!
Little outcasts from life’s fold
The grave’s hope they may be joined in
By Christ’s covenant consoled
For our social contract’s grinding
If no better can be done
Let us do but this, endeavour
That the sun behind the sun
Shine upon them while they shiver!
On the dismal London flags
Through the cruel social juggle
Put a thought beneath their rags
To ennoble the heart’s struggle
O my sisters, not so much
Are we asked for not a blossom
From our children’s nosegay, such
As we gave it from our bosom
Not the milk left in their cup
Not the lamp while they are sleeping
Not the little cloak hung up
While the coat’s in daily keeping
But a place in Ragged Schools
Where the outcasts may to-morrow
Learn by gentle words and rules
Just the uses of their sorrow
O my sisters! children small
Blue-eyed, wailing through the city
Our own babes cry in them all:
Let us take them into pity
"England’s strong, " say many speakers
"If she winks, the Czar must come
Prow and topsail, to the breakers"
"England’s rich in coal and oak, "
Adds a Roman, getting moody
"If she shakes a travelling cloak
Down our Appian roll the scudi"
"England’s righteous, " they rejoin:
"Who shall grudge her exaltations
When her wealth of golden coin
Works the welfare of the nations?"
I am listening here in Rome
Over Alps a voice is sweeping
"England’s cruel, save us some
Of these victims in her keeping!"
As the cry beneath the wheel
Of an old triumphant Roman
Cleft the people’s shouts like steel
While the show was spoilt for no man
Comes that voice let others shout
Other poets praise my land here:
I am sadly sitting out
Praying, "God forgive her grandeur"
Shall we boast of empire, where
Time with ruin sit's commissioned?
In God’s liberal blue air
Peter’s dome it'self looks wizened
And the mountains, in disdain
Gather back their lights of opal
From the dumb despondent plain
Heaped with jawbones of a people
Lordly English, think it o’er
Cæsar’s doing is all undone!
You have cannons on your shore
And free Parliaments in London
Princes’ parks, and merchants’ homes
Tents for soldiers, ships for seamen
Ay, but ruins worse than Rome’s
In your pauper men and women
Women leering through the gas
(Just such bosoms used to nurse you)
Men, turned wolves by famine pass!
Those can speak themselves
And curse you
But these others children small
Spilt like blots about the city
Quay, and street, and palace-wall
Take them up into your pity!
Ragged children with bare feet
Whom the angels in white raiment
Know the names of, to repeat
When they come on you for payment
Ragged children, hungry-eyed
Huddled up out of the coldness
On your doorsteps, side by side
Till your footman damns their boldness
In the alleys, in the squares
Begging, lying little rebels
In the noisy thoroughfares
Struggling on with piteous trebles
Patient children think what pain
Makes a young child patient ponder!
Wronged too commonly to strain
After right, or wish, or wonder
Wicked children, with peaked chins
And old foreheads! there are many
With no pleasures except sins
Gambling with a stolen penny
Sickly children, that whine low
To themselves and not their mothers
From mere habit, never so
Hoping help or care from others
Healthy children, with those blue
English eyes, fresh from their Maker
Fierce and ravenous, staring through
At the brown loaves of the baker
I am listening here in Rome
And the Romans are confessing
"English children pass in bloom
All the prettiest made for blessing
"Angli angeli!" (resumed
From the mediæval story)
"Such rose angelhoods, emplumed
In such ringlets of pure glory!"
Can we smooth down the bright hair
O my sisters, calm, unthrilled in
Our heart’s pulses? Can we bear
The sweet looks of our own children
While those others, lean and small
Scurf and mildew of the city
Spot our streets, convict us all
Till we take them into pity?
"Is it our fault?" you reply
"When, throughout civilization
Every nation’s empery
Is asserted by starvation?
"All these mouths we cannot feed
And we cannot clothe these bodies"
Well, if man’s so hard indeed
Let them learn at least what God is!
Little outcasts from life’s fold
The grave’s hope they may be joined in
By Christ’s covenant consoled
For our social contract’s grinding
If no better can be done
Let us do but this, endeavour
That the sun behind the sun
Shine upon them while they shiver!
On the dismal London flags
Through the cruel social juggle
Put a thought beneath their rags
To ennoble the heart’s struggle
O my sisters, not so much
Are we asked for not a blossom
From our children’s nosegay, such
As we gave it from our bosom
Not the milk left in their cup
Not the lamp while they are sleeping
Not the little cloak hung up
While the coat’s in daily keeping
But a place in Ragged Schools
Where the outcasts may to-morrow
Learn by gentle words and rules
Just the uses of their sorrow
O my sisters! children small
Blue-eyed, wailing through the city
Our own babes cry in them all:
Let us take them into pity