ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN (1841 - 1901) |
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{The New Rome 1898}
189 THE LAST CHRISTIANS.
“HALLELUJAH JANE.” “He’s a long way off, is Jesus—and we’ve got to make it loud!”
Glory! Hallelujah! March along together! “ ’ALLELOOJAH! ’alleloojah! Round the corner of the street Glory! Hallelujah! Sound the fife and drum! “Are they gone? Well, lay me down, Jenny—for p’r’aps this very day 191 Well, one night as I was climbin’ up the stair, tir’d out and sad, Well, Jenny, no one blamed me!—and the p’lice said ‘Serve him right!’— Arter that, I sort o’ drifted ’ere and there about the town, Glory! Hallelujah! Fighting for the Lord! “Still a-playin’ in the distance! ‘Alleloojah! Fife and drum! [9:1] “Well, she got me work, and told me folks must labour every one, Glory! Hallelujah! March along together! “Coming back? Ah, yes, I ’ear them, louder, louder, as they come; 199
[Notes: [Note: The London Lock Hospital was founded in 1746, by William Bromfeild, it was the first voluntary hospital for venereal diseases. It was taken over by the National Health Service in 1948 and closed in 1953. The original building for the hospital was at Grosvenor Place, near Hyde Park, (1746-1841). In 1842 it moved to Harrow Road, Westbourne Grove. The Lock Asylum for the Reception of Penitent Female Patients (also known as the Lock Rescue Home) was proposed in 1787 and opened in 1792 with the aim of providing a refuge/reformatory for women with venereal diseases who had been treated at the Lock Hospital, but had no steady life to which to return. The girls were taught needlework and other skills which it was hoped would fit them for service. The Asylum moved to the new building in Harrow Road in 1849 and changed its name to “Rescue Home” in 1893. The full name of the London Lock now being the London Lock Hospital and Rescue Home. v. 7, l. 15: And I left the place next mornin’—I was wild, ye see, to go—
200 L’ENVOI TO THE PRECEDING POEM.
NOUGHT is so base that Nature cannot turn Be sure this trampled clay beneath our feet All is a mystery and a change,—a strife God works with instruments as foul as these, Out of the tangled woof of Day and Night
201 THE LAST CHRISTIANS.
“ANNIE;” OR, THE WAIF’S JUBILEE. “The magistrate asked her what she had to say for herself. ‘Only this,
“Annie! Annie!” . . . What voice is it she hears across the storm, What a Night! strong and blind “Annie! Annie!” . . . Out from the darkness she hath crept once more, What a Night! fierce and blind Hell? She is in it, and these shapes she sees, “Annie! Annie!” . . . Annie! . . .
207 L’ENVOI TO THE PRECEDING POEM.
I. COURAGE, and face the strife of Humankind Think’st thou thy God hath toil’d thro’ endless Time Age after age hath roll’d in billowy strife Dead? Nought that lives can die. We live, and see! Still thine own Soul, if thou would’st still the strife 208 II. How? Thou be saved, and one of these be lost? Shall these be cast away? Then rest thou sure By these, thy shadows, shalt thou rise or fall; These shapes are only images of thee,
209
I. THE bugle is blowing from elfin dells A child I dwelt in the wild north-land, Tired with playing on the sands so fair They wetted my lips with the honey-dew I saw the fields of the silvern grain I learn’d the spell o’ the Elfin land 210 I heard what mortals cannot hear, They bore me back from the Land of Light As I wander’d back on the ocean sand
II. Lonely I dwelt by the sad sea-shore They gather’d at night around my bed, 211 “Sing, for a World that is weary and grieves, “Sing, for the hearts that are sad and old, I sung my song by the cottage door Then into the City I singing pass’d
III. From lane to lane, from street to street, The smoke of the City above my head 212 And I tried to sing, but no song would come
IV. Full many a year my heart was sore There came a bird in the dead of night The clouds of the City were cleft in twain, The banners of Elfland waved on high, The pale Fay-King with his golden crown 213 And some were blind, and some were lame, And down to a silvern strand they hied Back they flocked to the City cold, From the shining dove-cots overhead And the Fays of the woods came thronging in, Have you heard the croon of a cushat creep 214 And the little children lay content And ever the bugles of Elfland blew
V. The bugle blows from the elfin dells Be it rain or wind, be it shine or snow, The mist that floats before human eyes Yet the folk of Elfland are busy yet 215 From door to door the Good Folk fly, The little box of mignonette, They are with us yet, they are busy yet, At dead of night with a soft footfall 216 VI. The bugle blows from the elfin dells Be it sun or snow, be it rain or wind, I hear the sound of a funeral bell I hear the weeping, I hear the groans, But I only smile, for the Fays by night When the gates o’ the grave are openëd He stands and smiles on the folk asleep, 217 And I hear his voice ring clear and mild And I see the faces of old old men And men and women forget their care And the graves are open, and shining crowds Yea, this is the work the Fay-folk do Alas for the life of ashes and sand, 218 _____
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