John Paul's book: moral and instructive: consisting of travels, tales, poetry, and like fabrications . the meshes and lines Of the net they were spreading for man. If the carpenter chose he could tell. As he drove in the finishing the blow, as it echoing fell. Rang through the low hall like a wail;The mason could tell, if he chose. Of the blood accidentally spattered the walls as they rose. And reddened the mortar with they hurried the work to its close. And the Tenement-house was built. In a narrow and dim-lighted street. Where the light of Gods sun never beams,
John Paul's book: moral and instructive: consisting of travels, tales, poetry, and like fabrications . the meshes and lines Of the net they were spreading for man. If the carpenter chose he could tell. As he drove in the finishing the blow, as it echoing fell. Rang through the low hall like a wail;The mason could tell, if he chose. Of the blood accidentally spattered the walls as they rose. And reddened the mortar with they hurried the work to its close. And the Tenement-house was built. In a narrow and dim-lighted street. Where the light of Gods sun never beams,Where the tenement lodger is blest If haply he sees it in dreams ;Where the pavements are reeking with filth. And the sewers pour their pestilent breath, ,Where Fever and Famine link hands. And Disease holds a revel with Death;In the midst of this rottenhig reek. Where a prayer would have taint like a curse,The millionaire built for the Poor, That dollars might come to his purse;That servants miglit wait on his chair. That a preacher might purr in his face;That his wife might be rustling in A NIGHT SCENE. THE HOUSE FOR THE TOOR CATCHES FIRE. 355 And his daughters float lightly in , think of tliis, daughters and wives, As your carriage through fair Broadway your splendor is purchased by lives ; That your horses feet trample on souls Shall I tell of the tenement-house? Of the human forms packed in its walls,With scarcely the space for their lungs Allotted to beasts in their stalls ?Shall I tell of the rottening beams. Of the stairway which rocked with your the floor which was crumbling below, And the slime-dropping walls overhead?Shall I tell th;it the foulness without Was pure to the foulness the harvest that Deaths sickle reaps When Poverty crouches with Sin ? But little the millionaire recked Of the lives or the souls that were lost,For Rotten-row paid like a mine, And the yearly rcut douljled its cost. In the hush of a still Sabbath
Size: 1269px × 1970px
Photo credit: © The Reading Room / Alamy / Afripics
License: Licensed
Model Released: No
Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, bookidjohnpaulsboo, bookyear1874
