Tom Taylor, King Cholera's Procession

From Russian steppe, from Persian sand.

From pine-fringed Norway fiord,

From Elbe's and Eyder’s peopled strand

I’ve skimmed the sea — I've swept the land —

Way for your lord !

Come deck my board — prepare my bed,

And let the trump of doom

Peal out a march, that as I tread

Above the dying and the dead

All may make room !

From far I snuff the odour sweet

That I do love the best;

And wheree'r I set my feet

Courtiers and liegemen flock to greet

Their King confest.

Well have you done your loyal part,

My subjects and my slaves -

In town and country, port and mart,

All's ready - after my own heart -

All - to the graves !

What is my feast? These babes forpined; -

Men ere their prime made old; —

These sots, with strong drink bleared and blind —

These herds of unsexed woman-kind

Foul-mouthed and bold —

These bodies, shrivelled, seared

With the malaria's breath;

In foetid dens and workshops reared;

From reeking sewers, drains uncleared,

Drinking in death.

What is my court? These cellars piled

With filth of many a year —

These rooms with rotting damps defiled —

These alleys where the sun ne‘er smiled,

Darkling and drear !

These street along the river’s bank,

Below the rise of tide; _

These hovels, set in stifling rank,

Sapped by the earth-damps green and dank -

These cess-pools wide.

These yards, whose heaps of dust and bone

Breathe poison all around;

These styes, whose swinish tenants grown

Half human, with their masters own

A common ground.

What are my perfumes? Stink and stench

From slaughter house and sewer;

The oozing gas from opened trench,

The effluvia of the pools that drench:

Court-yards impure.

What is my music? Hard-wrung groans

From strong men stricken down;

Women’s and children's feebler moans,

And the slow death-bell’s muffled tones

In every town.

Who are my lieges? Those that rule

In Vestry and at Board;

The Town Hall's glib and giddy fool,

The mob's most abject slave and tool,

Though called its lord.

He who with prate of Vested Rights

Old forms of wrong defends;

Who for pound-foolishness still fights

Wisdom, save penny-wisdom, slights;

These are my friends.