A THOUGHT IN A THOROUGHFARE.
SURGING on in ceaseless shoals
Thousands of immortal souls,
Wave on wave of restless life
Crested rough with selfish strife,-
What a cavalcade comes nigh
In this crowd of passers by!
O the sorrows, pains, and cares,—
O the troubles, sins, and snares,-
O the histories past belief
Piled with wrong and soak'd in grief,—
O the hidden woes that lie
In this crowd of passers by !
Watch the faces as they pass;
What a strangely changeful mass,-
Business, pleasure, duty, sin,
War without, or peace within,
Glooms or gladdens every eye
In this crowd of passers by.
There, is vice and wanton youth,—
There, contented worth and truth,-
There, the sons of toil and skill,-
And the thousands gather still
-Ah! poor monad, what am I
In this crowd of passers by?
A THOUGHT IN A THOROUGHFARE.
Each of all the multitude
Has his evil and his good;
Every one his hopes and fears,
All alike their joys and tears;
All must suffer, all must die
In this crowd of passers by!
Craving body, yearning soul,
Each is to himself a whole;
And how little any cares
How his fainting brother fares;
And how frequent is the sigh
In this crowd of passers by!
Yet as thus I move along
Carried onward by the throng,
In a solitude I seem
Walking in a peopled dream,
Where around me phantoms fly
In this crowd of passers by.
All alone I stand aside
Listening to the human tide,
Till my shuddering spirit hears,
Wailing down the gulph of years,
An exceeding bitter cry
From that crowd of passers by.
PENT in wynds and closes narrow,
Breathing pestilential air,
Crush'd beneath oppression's harrow,
Faint with famine, bow'd with care,-
Gaunt Affliction's sons and daughters!
Why so slow to hear the call
Which The Voice upon the waters
Preaches solemnly to all?
Hark! Old Ocean's tongue of thunder Hoarsely calling bids you speed
To the shores he held asunder
Only for these times of need;
Now, upon his friendly surges
Ever, ever roaring Come,
All the sons of hope he urges
To a new, a richer home!
England and her sea-girt sisters
Pine for want in seeming wealth;
Though the gaudy surface glisters,
This is not the hue of health:
Oh! the honest labour trying
Vainly here to earn its bread,Oh the willing workers dying, Unemploy'd, untaught, unfed!
Thousand sights that melt to pity,-
Move to fear, or-tempt to scorn!
Wretched swarms in field and city,
Wherefore are these paupers born!-
Shall I tell you, heirs of pleasure?
Shall I teach you, sons of pain?
Unto both, each in his measure,
Stir I now this earnest strain.
Lo! to every human creature
Born upon this bounteous earth,
Speaks the GOD of grace and nature,
Speaks for plenty or for dearth:
Till the ground; if not, thou starvest;
Fear shall drive to duteous toil :
Till the ground; a golden harvest
Then shall wave on every soil!
And behold the KING All-glorious
Unto Britain tythes the world,—
Everywhere her crown victorious,
Everywhere her cross unfurl'd!
GOD hath given her distant regions,
Broad and rich; and store of ships;
GOD hath added homeborn legions,
Steep'd in trouble to the lips!
Join, then, in one holy tether
Those whom man hath put aside, Those whom GOD would link together,
Earth and labour well-applied:
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