I'm no grumbler at the rulers of "this free and happy land," And I don't go 'round explaining things I do not understand; But I know there's something treacherous in the working of the law, _When we get a dose of poison out of every breath we draw_. I have talked too much, good Preacher, and I hope you won't be vexed, But _I'm_ going to make a sermon with that white face for a text; And I'll preach it, and I'll preach it, till I set the people wild O'er the heartless, reckless grasping of the men who killed my child! [_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._] Still do I write--day-time and night-- That which I see in my leisurely flight. What is this sign that is claiming the sight?-- "Lodgings within here, at five cents per night!" Let me examine this cheap-entered nest, Pay my five cents, and go in with the rest; Let me jot down with sly pen, but sincere, What, in this garret, I see, smell, and hear. Great, gloomy den! where, on close-clustered shelves, Shelterless wretches can shelter themselves; Pestilence-drugged is the murderous air, Full of the breathings of want and despair! Horrible place!--where The Crushed Race Winces 'neath Poverty's dolefullest blight-- Bivouac of suffering, sin, and disgrace: What can you look for, at five cents per night? Hustle them in, jostle them in, Many of nation, and divers of kin; Sallow, and yellow, and tawny of skin-- Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in! Handfuls of withered but suffering clay, Swept from the East by oppression away; Baffled adventurers, conquered and pressed Back from the gates of the glittering West; Men who with indolence, folly, and guile Carelessly slighted Prosperity's smile; Men who have struggled 'gainst Destiny's frown, Inch after inch, till she hunted them down. Scores in a tier--pile them up here-- Many of peoples and divers of kin; Drift of the nations, from far and from near, Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in! Islands of green, mistily seen, Hover in visions these sleepers between; Beautiful memories, cozy and clean, Restfully precious, and sweetly serene. Womanly kisses have softened the brow Lying in drunken bewilderment now; Infantile faces have cuddled for rest Here on this savage and rag-covered breast. Lucky the wretch who, in Poverty's ways, Bears not the burden of "happier days:" Many a midnight is gloomier yet By the remembrance of stars that have set! Echoes of pain, drearily plain, Come of old melodies sweet and serene; Images sad to the heart and the brain Rise out of memories cozy and green. * * * * *