"Matches", unknown author.

The moon looked o'er the city through the rifts of a hurrying storm.

Its darting [?] glimpses lighting up a bent and tattered form.

The rain had soaked his squalid rags, and ruined the piteous store

Of matches that his shrunken hands were vainly covering o'er.

Creeping along the gutter, with a slow and feeble gait,

He had offered the wretched matches from early morn till late;

But the eager life of the city and passed him heedless by,

Untouched by the light of hunger that shone in his sunken eye.

And now, when the night had fallen, with a trembling form alone,

He crouched before the furious blast that mocked his broken moan,

And gazed at the matches, ruined, in spite of his thin hands' care,

While the tears of helpless misery rolled down in dull despair.

The light from many a window shone out in the gusty night

From the homes of wealth and luxury, of revel and delight;

And my lady's rooms were thronging full, to hear a "star" declaim

Of the Charge of Balaclava, and India's deeds of fame!

"Theirs but to do or die!" - but the dead were the happiest there -

Their hearts were stilled in glorious deed, not broken by despair -

And the speaker's voice rose loud and high, "When can their glory fade?"

While out in the gutter, dying, lay one of the Light Brigade.

Oh England, cease thy boastful voice - there's a stain on thy renown!

Wipe Balaclava's story out, and haul [?] thy trophies down.

Let the nations know thee as thou art and let the truth proclaim

The measure of thy soldiers' meed* is the measure of thy shame.

* meed = recompense or reward (archaic)