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 wheresoe'er 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 — aftcr 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, stunted, 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 streets 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-halls 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.
[Note the word "darkling", as in Matthew Arnold's Dover Beach! A very unusual word TT also uses in one of the Wandsworth Common poems. ]
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