In the Days When the World Was Wide | Page 6

in the street.
And then the only faces till the sun is sinking down
Are those of
outside toilers and the idlers of the town,
Save here and there a face
that seems a stranger in the street, Tells of the city's unemployed upon
his weary beat --
Drifting round, drifting round,
To the tread of listless feet --
Ah!
My heart aches for the owner of that sad face in the street.
And when the hours on lagging feet have slowly dragged away, And
sickly yellow gaslights rise to mock the going day,
Then flowing past
my window like a tide in its retreat,
Again I see the pallid stream of
faces in the street --
Ebbing out, ebbing out,
To the drag of tired feet,
While my heart is
aching dumbly for the faces in the street.
And now all blurred and smirched with vice the day's sad pages end,
For while the short `large hours' toward the longer `small hours' trend,
With smiles that mock the wearer, and with words that half entreat,
Delilah pleads for custom at the corner of the street --
Sinking down, sinking down,
Battered wreck by tempests beat --
A
dreadful, thankless trade is hers, that Woman of the Street.

But, ah! to dreader things than these our fair young city comes, For in
its heart are growing thick the filthy dens and slums, Where human
forms shall rot away in sties for swine unmeet, And ghostly faces shall
be seen unfit for any street --
Rotting out, rotting out,
For the lack of air and meat --
In dens of
vice and horror that are hidden from the street.
I wonder would the apathy of wealthy men endure
Were all their
windows level with the faces of the Poor?
Ah! Mammon's slaves,
your knees shall knock, your hearts in terror beat, When God demands
a reason for the sorrows of the street,
The wrong things and the bad things
And the sad things that we meet

In the filthy lane and alley, and the cruel, heartless street.
I left the dreadful corner where the steps are never still, And sought
another window overlooking gorge and hill;
But when the night came
dreary with the driving rain and sleet, They haunted me -- the shadows
of those faces in the street,
Flitting by, flitting by,
Flitting by with noiseless feet,
And with
cheeks but little paler than the real ones in the street.
Once I cried: `Oh, God Almighty! if Thy might doth still endure, Now
show me in a vision for the wrongs of Earth a cure.'
And, lo! with
shops all shuttered I beheld a city's street, And in the warning distance
heard the tramp of many feet,
Coming near, coming near,
To a drum's dull distant beat,
And soon
I saw the army that was marching down the street.
Then, like a swollen river that has broken bank and wall,
The human
flood came pouring with the red flags over all,
And kindled eyes all
blazing bright with revolution's heat, And flashing swords reflecting
rigid faces in the street.

Pouring on, pouring on,
To a drum's loud threatening beat,
And the
war-hymns and the cheering of the people in the street.
And so it must be while the world goes rolling round its course, The
warning pen shall write in vain, the warning voice grow hoarse, But not
until a city feels Red Revolution's feet
Shall its sad people miss
awhile the terrors of the street --
The dreadful everlasting strife
For scarcely clothes and meat
In that
pent track of living death -- the city's cruel street.
The Roaring Days
The night too quickly passes
And we are growing old,
So let us fill
our glasses
And toast the Days of Gold;
When finds of wondrous
treasure
Set all the South ablaze,
And you and I were faithful mates

All through the roaring days!
Then stately ships came sailing
From every harbour's mouth,
And
sought the land of promise
That beaconed in the South;
Then
southward streamed their streamers
And swelled their canvas full

To speed the wildest dreamers
E'er borne in vessel's hull.
Their shining Eldorado,
Beneath the southern skies,
Was day and
night for ever
Before their eager eyes.
The brooding bush,
awakened,
Was stirred in wild unrest,
And all the year a human
stream
Went pouring to the West.
The rough bush roads re-echoed
The bar-room's noisy din,
When
troops of stalwart horsemen
Dismounted at the inn.
And oft the
hearty greetings
And hearty clasp of hands
Would tell of sudden
meetings
Of friends from other lands;
When, puzzled long, the
new-chum
Would recognise at last,
Behind a bronzed and bearded
skin,
A comrade of the past.

And when the cheery camp-fire
Explored the bush with gleams,

The camping-grounds were crowded
With caravans of teams;
Then
home the jests were driven,
And good old songs were sung,
And
choruses were given
The strength of heart and lung.
Oh, they were
lion-hearted
Who gave our country birth!
Oh, they were of the
stoutest sons
From all the lands on earth!
Oft when the camps were dreaming,
And fires began to pale,

Through rugged ranges gleaming
Would come the Royal Mail.

Behind six foaming horses,
And lit