by Ernest Jones.
Originally published in The Labourer (Northern Star Office) vol.1 #1 (Apr 1847).
In a cottage on a moor
Famine's feeble children cried;
The frost knocked sharply at the door,
And hunger welcom'd him inside;
In the moonlight cracked the leaves,
As the fox across them passed,
And the ice-drops from the eaves
Rattled to the whirling blast;
On the black hearth glowed no ember,
On the damp floor lay the rhime,
Elfin-haloes of December
For the sainted Christmas-time;
And a pale girl sat there chaunting
Mournfully to children twain,
Like some sweet house-spirit haunting
Old men's homes with childhood's strain.
Ellen was a maiden fair,
With that beauty meek and frail,
Softened by the hand of care
From the red rose to the pale.
But the children had no feature
Of the blythe child's merry grace,
Still of spirit—small of stature—
Manhood's thought on childhood's face.
And a woman, thin and eager,
Tossed upon a litter low,
Lifting up large eyes of fever,
With a look of angry woe.
Harsh complaints, and words unkind
To each and all in turn addressed,
For pain, with searching hand, will find.
A bitter drop in every breast.
Bearing all with passive mood
While her sharp invective ran,
In cold and fearful calmness stood,
A silent, melancholy man.
O'er his brow the moonbeam lingered
'Mid the lines that passion wrought,
Like an angel, glory-fingered,
Shewing heaven the dangerous thought.
He had toiled in hope's assurance,
Toiled when hope had changed to fear,
Toiled amid despair's endurance—
These were sorry thanks to hear!
Yet he chid not her reproving,
Bore it all in quiet part—
Said: it is but misery moving
Pulses, foreign to* her heart.
Still in solemn silence bound,
Scarce a sign of life he gave,
But fixed his eyes upon the ground,
As though his look could dig his grave.
Sudden through the broken pane
Faintly gleamed a ruddy light,
And something like a festive strain
Came thrilling through the heart of night.
With flashing eyes that woman wan
Rose like a shade against the wall:
"Hark! hark! the festival's began!
"The tables groan at Leawood-hall!
"The Rich man feasts—and Leawood's near--
"What honey stores his golden hive!
"Go! bid him give those, dying here,
"One crust to save their souls alive!"
The night grew dark—but from a height
Afar the lordly mansion shone,
Shone pillar white—and portal bright,
Like trellice-work of fire and stone.
Along the roads, from every side,
The blazing lamps were seen to race,
As fast the guests invited hied
To share the feast at Leawood-Place.
It was a Norman castle high—
It was a keep of ages rude,
When men named murder, chivalry,
And robbery was called—a feud.
There barons stern once housed in pride,
And coined the labourer's heart to gold:
On field and fell the labourer died,
While they were gay in holt and hold.
"What they had lavished, to replenish,
They o'ertaxed endurance' length,
Drunk his labour down in Rhenish,
And grew strong upon his strength.
Men of haughtiness! unthinking
In their selfishness of caste,
'Twas his life-blood they were drinking!
But 'twould poison them at last.
From the dust that they were treading,
Some stood up by force or craft,
Till, the scutcheoned peer o'erheading,
In his face the trader laughed.
Then, his triumph once ensuring,
This new conqueror fiercely rose,
Smote the people's neck enduring,
After they had crushed his foes.
And those mighty tyrant-blasters
Settled into slaves again;
They had only changed their masters,
And that change was worse than vain.
Since then, a sterile-thoughted man
Had lorded it o'er Leawood fair,
Who as an errand-boy began,
And ended as a millionaire.
And his son, by slow degrees,
Mounted life with golden feet,
For the son knew how to please,
As the sire knew how to cheat.
Before he rose, the people's friend,
He feigned at all their wrongs to burn;
Now, as he bent, made others bend,
And played the tyrant in his turn.
Patronized each bible-mission;
Gave to charities—his name;
No longer cared for man's condition,
But carefully preserved—his game.
Against the Slave-trade he had voted,
"Rights of Man" resounding still;
Now, basely turning, brazen-throated,
Yelled against the Ten Hours' Bill.
Oh! Leawood-place was gay that night,
Shone roof and rafter, porch and door,
And proudly rolled the sheeted light
Its glory over Leawood-moor.
Full in the glare the labourer stood;
The music smote him like a blast,
And, through the rich ancestral wood,
He heard the fat deer rushing past.
"While we are starving!" cried his love;
"But they are watching!" said his fear.
'Twixt hell below and heaven above--
What dost thou on the balance here?
Through the hall the beggar spurning,
Menials drove him from the door:
Can they chide the torch for burning,
They cast smouldering on the floor?
Say not: "This is no fair sample,
"This was but the menial's part!"
'Twas the master's past example
Filtered through the servant's heart.
"Man is born—and man must live!"
Thus anger read its maddening creed:
"If I take, what they won't give,
"Can heaven itself frown on the deed?"
That night a fierce and haggard man
Was seen to rush from Leawood-place,
And fast the keen pursuers ran,
And rang the rifle on the race.
His blood is on the frozen heath;
The man-hounds speed to track his lair;
Thus dooms the rich the poor man's death,
Who dares to claim the poor man's share.
Ye pampered drones! pursuit is vain,
Give o'er the godless, cruel strife!
As well o'ertake the hurricane:
Despair and love fly there for life.
Long the anxious wife sat waiting,
Fainter grew the children's cry;
E'en the wind, the desolating,
Slept to his own lullaby.
The father came—but, hot and wild
The open door he staggered past;
His brow was knit, but still he smiled,
Like sunset over tempest cast.
"Food! food!" he cried, "they feast to night,
"And I have brought our share as well;
"Wife! we were starving—'twas our right!
"If not—as God wills—heaven or hell!"
Then spoke his wife with inward pride
To think her counsel proved so brave;
"I knew you could not be denied;
"Now bless the gentle hand that gave."
He strangely smiled in wondrous mood,
And, with the haste of fever, quaffed
Down to the dregs a fiery flood;
And still he smiled—and still he laughed.
He laughed to mark their spirits rise,
And that his wife had ceased to sigh,
And how the ardour in her eyes
Gave her the look of times gone by.
He laughed to think how small a cost
Might brighten poverty's eclipse;
But sudden silence strangely crossed
With blanching hand his quivering lips.
Then oft he kissed each little child,
And looked as one who'd much to say;
But, ere he spoke, some pinion wild
Waved the unuttered thought away.
And Ellen marvelled to behold
Such fitful change and sudden cheer;
He had so long been stern and cold,
This kindness seemed a thing to fear.
And fainter grew his smile, and bitter,
And his face turned cold and gray,
While slow he sunk down on the litter,
And strength's last bravery broke away.
Then they saw, where, heartward glancing,
Deep the cruel rifle smote;
While death's gurgling march advancing
Sounded up his gasping throat.
Clung, like leaves of Autumn's serest,
Wife and children to his side:
He turned his last look on his dearest,
And, thus sadly gazing, died.
Courage now no more dissembled
Broken strength and baffled will:
The wistful children stood and trembled,
And the room grew very still.
Still in Leawood laughter loud
Sped the dance athwart the floor;
That was Christmas for the Proud,
This was Christmas for the Poor.
In this Poem, the author has drawn but a faint picture of a poor man's Christmas, as will be seen by the following extracts from the public letter of Mr. Cummins, a magistrate of the County of Cork, to the Duke of Wellington, which was published in the Morning Herald and other journals of Tuesday, the 22nd of December last.
Mr. Cummins says, that,
"Having heard so much of the distress in the western parts of the county, I accordingly went on the 15th inst. to Skibbereen, and to give the instance of one townland which I visited, as an example of the state of the entire coast district, I shall state simply what I there saw. It is situate on the eastern side of Castlehaven harbour, and is named South Reen, in the parish of Myross. Being aware that I should have to witness scenes of frightful hunger, I provided myself with as much bread as five men could carry, and on reaching the spot I was surprised t© find the wretched hamlet apparently deserted. I entered some of the hovels to ascertain the cause, and the scenes that presented themselves were such as no tongue or pen can convey the slightest idea of. In the first, six tarnished and ghastly skeletons, to all appearance dead, were huddled in a corner on some filthy straw, their sole covering what seemed a ragged horsecloth their wretched legs hanging about, naked above the knees. I approached in horror, and found by a low moaning they were alive—they were in fever, four children, a woman, and what had once been a man. It is impossible to go through the detail. Suffice it to say, that in a few minutes I was surrounded by at least two hundred of such phantoms, such frightful spectres, as no words can describe. By far the greater number were delirious, either from famine or from fever. Their demoniac yells are still ringing in my ears, and their horrible images are fixed upon my brain. My heart sickens at the recital, but I must go on.
"In another case, decency would forbid what follows, but it must be told. My clothes were nearly torn off in my endeavour to escape from the throng of pestilence around, when my neckcloth was seized from behind by a gripe which compelled me to turn. I found myself grasped by a woman with an infant just born in her arms, and the remains of a filthy sack across her loins—the sole covering of herself and babe. The same morning the police opened a house on the adjoining lands, which was observed shut for many days, and two frozen corpses were found, lying upon the mud floor, half devoured by the rats.
"A mother, herself in a fever, was seen the same day to drag out the corpse of her child, a girl about twelve, perfectly naked, and leave it half covered with stones. In another house, within 500 yards of the cavalry station at Skibbereen, the dispensary doctor found seven wretches lying, unable to move, under the same cloak. One had been dead many hours, but the others were unable to move either themselves or the corpse.
"To what purpose should I multiply such cases?"
Compare this with the fact that, as stated in the public papers of the same day, "the ports of Galway, Tralee, Limerick, and Sligo, are filled with shipping taking in cargoes of oats for London, Liverpool, and Scotland, while the shipping notes are silent respecting arrivals of Indian corn or other articles of food," and the reader will have a tolerable idea of the condition of the people, and the worth of the government.
E.J.