Book III, Canto I: Earth's Torture-Chamber; The Holy Innocents

He said, " The vision before all will show
What branded deep into my heart worldwoe. . . .

" A little boy runs hurrying to school,
When lo ! a toyshop very beautiful !
The broad glass front shows every kind of toy,
Just fit to take the fancy of a boy.
He pauses ; looks ; he sees some spinning tops :
O drowsy humming when it whirls ! then flops
Down after many giddy drunken reels !
How has he longed for one ! — Ah ! now he feels
Two pennies in his pocket, — the school fees !
He may not buy, he knows full well, with these !
And yet withhold not your commiseration,
Ye elder folk, who have yielded to temptation !
An impulse urged him, scarce controllable ;
He is a little child ! be pitiful !
Unless ye ne'er yourselves have been to blame.
His father (irony bestowed the name !)
Being himself without a single sin.
Resolved to let all hell loose, and so win,
If may be, this most evil child of his
From such ineffable debaucheries.
He flogs this feebleness with furious strength
Of a brute's bulk full-fed, until, at length
Run down, it craves recruitment from a drink
Of fire at some street-corner ; see him sink,
The boy, stripped bare for beating, on the bed.
Moaning in anguish ! but his childhood led
Him, like a fairy, to forgetfulness;
For in the interval of sharp distress,
Diverted he may note a spider dart
Down the fine web it wove with subtle art
To whirl a fly within the silken toil,
Where it may leisurely devour the spoil.
Yea, any other trifle, that can catch
The light attention, he may feebly watch,
Albeit half-whimpering, for yet he feels
Dull inextinguished aching of the weals.
The outer scene may merciful beguile
From him a tearful, poor, bewildered smile,
Alluring flexile fancy from the rod,
Wherewith the ' father ' plays at angry God,
Enacts rehearsals of the ' love ' of Heaven,
Or that Supreme Assize ; till devils seven
Return with the tormentor ; at the Frown
That enters the torn victim cowers down,
Praying, with prayers that might have moved a stone,
Forgiveness ; be will do so never more!
Yet with red rope-thongs every bruise and sore
The tyrant lashes. Then such wild windwails
Are heard, that even dull Indifference pales.
Shaking the door, though vainly ; the dread clamour
Is drowned now when, with handle of a hammer.
The ruffian strikes his own child on the head.
Until he falls in swoon, or haply dead.
And God doth not shake in the shuddering wall,
To bury what must hurl to fatal fall
Love, justice, mercy, here and everywhere
Swooning in dumb renouncements of despair.
Or sinking to foundationless aljysses
Of thought-confounding chaos — where one misses
At least the spectacle my soul beholds.
The world-wide spectacle, alas ! that holds
Fiends thronged in earth's red amphitheatre.
Attentive to the sanguinary stir.
And sniffing gloatingly the cruel steam
Of torture and oppression ; with fierce gleam
Infernal of hot glittering eyes they watch
The unending human tragedy ; to snatch
Maniacal, malformed joy in some den,
Where deeds, beast-banned in savage moimtain-glen.
Assault, insult, the light by being born.
Prisoned in brothels, helpless and forlorn.
Ah ! God, the very babes, for worse than death.
Are pinioned by tyrants, with rank breath
Of moral plague infected, yea, deep dyed
Their lamb- white souls and bodies ; crucified
Their clean flesh, only that they may subserve
The orgasm of a flaccid satyr's nerve ;
While panders whom the hoary goat can pay
Batten upon Christ's little ones for prey !
Ah ! thought to turn a young man old and grey !
Their parents sell them — it is done to-day.

" Now, while I stand within the room,
And wring my hands above the piteous doom
Of this poor murdered child, fallen pale and
A mere inanimate heap, at the curst will
Of Tyranny, the vile, plague-spotted place
Teems thick with shapes of manifold disgrace
Ineffable ; they breathe in the murk air.
Like maggots in a carcase ; coiling there
Over each other, thronging like pale worms,
That interlacing shake misshapen forms
In horrible jubilation ; hear them hiss —
' Do yoii believe in God, fool! after this ?
See yonder spider at his ease devour
The impotent winged insect in his power ! '
And yet, I gasp in answer, white and wan,
' Charge all upon the tuicked will of man ! '
One chuckling discord from the fearful clan
Resounded, a thin, evil shadow-laughter;
I shuddered, fainted — and the scene changed after.

" Ah ! now I roam
To a yeoman's home ;
Meadow-bounded,
Flower-surrounded !
From year to year
Inhabit here
Well-thought-of people,
Anigh the steeple ;
Pledged ne'er to drink.
They frugal sink
In a bank for savings
The yield of slavings,
A hoarded thrift.
And for soul -shrift
Are oft at chapel ;
They pile the apple
In yonder loft,
Manure their croft,
With cart in byre,
With hens in mire,
A horse in stable,
Good food on table,
And soft grey wings
In a mossy roof.
While robin sings
On a fence aloof;
A paradise,
With ne'er a vice,
Verily
The place should be ! . . .
But is that cell
In the gaol of hell,
Where (sight appalling !)
One saw crawling
Babes span long,
Who had done no wrong,
Save to inherit
Eve's demerit,
And not have been
Washed quite clean
By Church's chrism
From Serpent-schism.
For as little reason
(But I talk treason !)
Some babes on earth
Are seared from birth
With a brand of doom.
To which the tomb
Were mercy mild.
Pure, undefiled ;
Nor old divine.
Nor the Florentine,
Ever invented worse than this
For his own, or God's own enemies!
The house is haunted
By an apparition
Ofa little child! . . .
Hallucination !
An evil dream ! . . .
And yet 'tis there !
The very semblance
Ofa little child
Upon the stair.
The bones protruding.
Pale skin and bone ;
His face a fever,
A famine glare
In pits for eyes.
The skeleton
Hath a load to carry,
A heavy load,
Two flat irons.
One half his weight :
Up and down
The old wooden stair,
All through daylight.
And half through night.
Up and down
The phantom flits,
Tramps with a load,
It scarce can carry. . . .
Ah! when to sleep?
For never rests he
From that vain labour,
Save to stumble.
Or fainting fall.
Or when a boy
(One said a brother)
Shares crusts with him
In secrecy ;
Or when the woman.
At ease below
(The father's wife),
Unlifesustaining
Meagre morsels
Doles for food.
Nay, nay, 'tis living !
And all too true !
The boy hath taken
A hunch of bread ;
And now she beats him
With rods of thorn ;
(The Lord wore thorn !)
He drops the irons,
Outworn at last ;
(The Lord so fainted.
When He bore the cross.
And now inflaming
With an evil salt
The old raw wounds,
She flogs again.
Such deeds were done
In days long dead,
For the glory of God,
At God's command.
I know ! I know !
Ineffable orgies
Of the carnival
Of human crime
Are old as time !
Yea, uncommanded
By God the Lord,
Who doth them now ?
If uncommanded
By God the Lord,
How do them now ?
The wife, reclining
In a warm armchair,
Darns diligently ;
Anon she feeds
A sleek furred cat.
The man, the father.
Luxuriously
Inhales, and blows
The curled blue cloud,
And lets her murder
His only child.
He sees and hears
The living ghost
Of his only son
Tramp up and down,
And sleeps at night,
Nor dreams of it.
The demon woman
Benumbs the man,
While God alloweth
The vital air
For a human soul,
Belief in love,
The love of love,
With the breath of life
For a human body.
To be slowly drawn.
Sucked forth from it,
And makes no sign !
The child's dead mother
Makes no sign !
Ah ! that the mother
May be dead indeed,
And may not know !
This is a child, sir,
A child indeed, sir.
Like yours, like mine ! . . .
See, now he dies ;
One certifies
' A natural death ! ' . . .
Listen ! low convulsive laughters
Awaken old worm-eaten rafters !
Some mutter, Do you now believe in
God?'

"Once more a mean room in the huge dim city !
No fire, no food, no medicine, no water,
No sheet, no blanket, and no coverlid !
A sick child on a pallet left to starve
Between bare walls ; the wind bites keen with frost.
Alone in London ! Dismal Nights and Days,
Dumb warders, alternate their kindred gloom
Grimly by her death-bed, indifferent.
— Days, long lone intervals of demi-darkness.
Whose are hoarse cries, foot-trampings, and far wheels ;
Ah ! never any kindly voice for her,
Meaningless murmurs, unconcerned for her ;
Nights of ear-ringing, terrifying silence.
Save for some drunken ditty of sodden harlot,
A windy flare of sallow flame without —
Unsoothed, untended, and, ah ! God, unloved !
Her scant frock, faded cotton; while the pair.
Whom men name ' father,' ' mother,' at their fire
Feed, warmly clothed, unheeding, near, beneath her ;
Who cannot turn herself upon the bed,
Her bones protruding, lying upon her sores.
There comes no comfort, and no care, no kiss.
No drop to drink, nor crumb from the full table
Of these, who want their own child buried, where
An elder mouldereth, whose fate was hers.

" In these well-fended carcases a hollow
Gapes where the tenderest of all hearts should be.
A parent's heart — the devil did this for jest —
Their child would love them if they would allow her !
Wealthy must they be who can toss back love,
And spill, or spurn it as a common thing !
The child had one strange friend, a folded rag.
Of which she made a pet for lack of dolls ;
She communed with it daily, and at night
Her wasted cheek lay over it ; she named
It Tatto, lavished all her heart on that,
Because none other wanted her poor heart.
And when the rude, hard undertaker came,
He laid the cold, unkempt, dishevelled head
Upon the small soiled fetish of a rag,
Inside the coffin ; for he found it clasped
In her thin hand what time he took her measure
For burying ; to his mate he only said —
'Poor little thing ! we'll put this in with her !'
His was perchance the only kindness shown her,
Less orphaned in her death than in her life.
Surelyhe gave his small cup of cold water! . . .
Ah! God! ah! God! art Thou but a fair dream
Of our distracted pity ? couldst not find
For solace of this child, to fill the place
Of these most fearful beings, masquerading
In guise of man, one common human heart?
For she was all ungirt with mystic light,
That panoplies the martyred patriot,
Or saint ; fair well-sustaining effluence
Of the soul's inner hidden Holy of holies ;
The glory that illumines the lone steep
Of causes championed to the uttermost,
Irradiating subterranean
Dark dungeon, paling the full jewel-blaze.
And cloth of gold in courts and thrones of kings.
This youth is one dependence, wants our help
As emptiness wants filling of the air.
Parents to fail their little one ! As though
The sun should fail the morning, or the rain
Fail wells, and rivers, and the dancing spring !

" How clear the auroral atmosphere
Of dewy, childly joy!
But children close their fans for fear
At shadow of annoy.
And you may shut them from their light
With your huge bulk of ghostly night ;
So soon as you withdraw your shadow,
They will re-open on the meadow,
And with a sunny laugh
How cheerily will quaff
Your newly shining smile
In a very little while !
Ah ! they will kiss the very hand
That dooms them to a loveless land,
Or scars them with a cruel brand.
What a curse that kiss will be
To guilty souls, awaking in Eternity !

My Little Ones
" Ah ! little ones! my little ones!
When will your sorrows end ?
We deemed you daughters, deemed you sons
Of our Eternal Friend !
Yet ever tears of blood we bleed
Above your bitter mortal need !
I deem that it may be your part
To break, and melt the world's hard heart :
And when ye know, ye will rejoice ;
In Heaven, will you give your voice
For earthly pain, your own free choice?
In the life that follows this,
Will you, with your forgiving kiss.
Pile the saving coals of fire
On cruel mother, cruel sire ?
Little ones, my little ones.
Ah ! when will be the end ?
We deemed you daughters, deemed you sons
Of more than earthly friend!
We want you fair, and hale, and strong,
Full of laughter, mirth, and song;
For when we hear you weep and moan,
Our Lord is shaken on His throne !
If later years be dull and sad,
Leave, O leave the children glad !
Little ones, my little ones,
However all may end,
Earth may fail, with moons and suns.
But never. Love, your friend !
Yqx Jesus was a little child.
And God Himself is meek and mild.
" Nay, but there came here no deHverer,
No glance, no tone of kind alleviation ;
The neighbours are aware of the slow murder;
And yet none knocks to save ; arrests the man.
Encountered in the workshop, in the street.
None shakes from him the torturer's red hand ;
But loungers lounge, and merry-makers hurry ;
While floors, and walls, and ceilings keep the same
Abominable immobility.
As when some mother's burning heart of hearts
Bleeds, breaks above the interminable pain,
And slow extinction of her youngest-born.
The sunlight, soiled with coming to these courts,
Lurid, or livid, day defiled with smoke,
Faint moonlight, timid starlight, went and came ;
They saw, or saw not ; went, and came unheeding !
All these contemplate with the same dull stare
The widow's only son restored to her
From Nain's cold bier by Christ, and
Clytemnestra,
The baleful woman, with her false feigned smile.
Snaring the hero in her toils for slaughter !

" Then mocking spectral tones assail mine ear —
' And do you now believe in God, good sir?
I sobbed, ' Charge all on the free will of man,
Or on our old ill-builded polity.
Social extremes, our ignorance I ' Mine eyes
Fell on the father deep in a learned book,
'On Floating Germs,' by our great physicist;
Fell also on rare coleoptera,
Framed, under glass, hung spitted on the wall.
. . . So, shuddering at the loathly cachinnation.
That shook the room, I reeled to outer air,
My brain that teemed with burningcharacters.
Wiped clean now to brute vacancy — perchance
For respite from the horrors. . . .