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Poem by Bessie Rayner Parkes The Black Death WHAT is it? a speck in the distance, A rumour that flies in the air, Too faint to be met by resistance, Too strong to be braved by despair. Just whispered about the street-corners, Just traced by the timorous pen; Like some scandal breathed out by suborners, Which poisons the spirit of men. Where is it? but yesterday even A man galloped in from the plain, His eyes were a terrible leaven Of horror, suspicion, and pain. He galloped straight up to the Town House, And none heard the news which he said; Thank God for the miles he had ridden, For the horse which he rode dropped dead! The rumour grows darker and darker, Each moment the agony swells; Some say, "'Tis the trade of the doctors;" And some, "They have poisoned the wells." A threatening doom o'er the city, It hangs like a terrible sword; No man for his fellow has pity, When both dread the curse of the Lord. To-night there's a crowd in the market, But scattered like leaves on the blast; A moment may drive them asunder-- For whom will this night be the last? No wonder they start in their slumbers, Or count every tremulous breath; Alas! who can reckon the numbers To be reaped in the harvest of Death, When the fear that now floats like a vapour, So shadowy, formless, and vague, Is wrought up to a terrible presence, And named, not in whispers, The Plague? Bessie Rayner Parkes Bessie Rayner Parkes's other poems:
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