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THE PLAGUE IN THE CITY, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Know ye what ye will meet with in the city?
Last Line: Bright with the ring that holds her lover's hair.
Alternate Author Name(s): North, Christopher
Subject(s): Plague


KNOW ye what ye will meet with in the city?
Together will ye walk through long, long streets,
All standing silent as a midnight church.
You will hear nothing but the brown red grass
Rustling beneath your feet; the very beating
Of your own hearts will awe you; the small voice
Of that vain bauble, idly counting time,
Will speak a solemn language in the desert.
Look up to heaven, and there the sultry clouds,
Still threatening thunder, lower with grim delight,
As if the spirit of the plague dwelt there,
Darkening the city with the shades of death.
Know ye that hideous hubbub? Hark, far off
A tumult like an echo! on it comes,
Weeping and wailing, shrieks and groaning pray'r,
And, louder than all, outrageous blasphemy.
The passing storm hath left the silent streets,
But are these houses near you tenantless?
Over your heads from a window, suddenly
A ghastly face is thrust, and yells of death
With voice not human. Who is he that flies,
As if a demon dogg'd him on his path?
With ragged hair, white face, and bloodshot eyes,
Raving, he rushes past you; till he falls,
As if struck by lighting, down upon the stones,
Or, in blind madness, dash'd against the wall
Sinks backward into stillness. Stand aloof,
And let the pest's triumphal chariot
Have open way advancing to the tomb,
See how he mocks the pomp and pageantry
Of earthly kings! a miserable cart,
Heap'd up with human bodies; dragg'd along
By pale steeds, skeleton-anatomies!
And onwards urged by a wan, meager wretch,
Doom'd never to return from the foul pit,
Whither, with oaths, he drives his load of horror
Would you look in? Gray hairs and golden tresses,
Wan shrivell'd cheeks, that have not smiled for years,
And many a rosy visage smiling still;
Bodies in the noisome weeds of beggary wrapt,
With age decrepit, and wasted to the bone;
And youthful frames, august and beautiful,
In spite of mortal pangs -- there lie they all,
Embraced in ghastliness! But look not long,
For happily mid the faces glimmering there,
The well-known cheek of some beloved friend
Will meet thy gaze, or some small snow-white hand,
Bright with the ring that holds her lover's hair.





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