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." II. "England's rich in coal and oak," Adds a Roman, getting moody; "If she shakes a travelling cloak, Down our Appian roll the scudi." III. "England's righteous," they rejoin: "Who shall grudge her exaltations When her wealth of golden coin Works the welfare of the nations?" IV. I am listening here in Rome. Over Alps a voice is sweeping-- "England's cruel, save us some Of these victims in her keeping!" V. 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, VI. Comes that voice. Let others shout, Other poets praise my land here: I am sadly sitting out, Praying, "God forgive her grandeur." VII. Shall we boast of empire, where Time with ruin sits commissioned? In God's liberal blue air Peter's dome itself looks wizened; VIII. And the mountains, in disdain, Gather back their lights of opal From the dumb despondent plain Heaped with jawbones of a people. IX. Lordly English, think it o'er, Caesar's doing is all undone! You have cannons on your shore, And free Parliaments in London; X. Princes' parks, and merchants' homes, Tents for soldiers, ships for seamen,-- Ay, but ruins worse than Rome's In your pauper men and women. XI. 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. XII. But these others--children small, Spilt like blots about the city, Quay, and street, and palace-wall-- Take them up into your pity! XIII. Ragged children with bare feet, Whom the angels in white raiment Know the names of, to repeat When they come on you for payment. XIV. Ragged children, hungry-eyed, Huddled up out of the coldness On your doorsteps, side by side, Till your footman damns their boldness. XV. In the alleys, in the squares, Begging, lying little rebels; In the noisy thoroughfares, Struggling on with piteous trebles. XVI. Patient children--think what pain Makes a young child patient--ponder! Wronged too commonly to strain After right, or wish, or wonder. XVII. Wicked children, with peaked chins, And old foreheads! there are many With no pleasures except sins, Gambling with a stolen penny. XVIII. Sickly children, that whine low To themselves and not their mothers, From mere habit,--never so Hoping help or care from others. XIX. Healthy children, with those blue English eyes, fresh from their Maker, Fierce and ravenous, staring through At the brown loaves of the baker. XX.