But what is all this to the dumb-stricken wonder, swift followed by
outbursts of full-throated glee,
Which fancy can picture, when London's pale outcasts from some grassy
cliff catch first sight of the Sea!
_Thalatta! Thalatta_! There's many a lad who has never before had a
glimpse of the wave;
For these are of those who, from London's dark wastes 'tis the aim of
their leaders to rescue and save.
"Nobody's Boys," the lost waifs of the city, foredoomed, but for aid,
to debasement and crime,
Possible gallows-birds,--they with wan faces late cleansed from the
rookery's hideous grime,
Snatched from the gutter whilst boyhood bears hope with it, gathered and
tended with vigilant care.
Servants of soul-thrift their volunteer champions! Weeds of the slum,
with fresh soil and sweet air,
Grow into grace and fair fruitage. These pariahs, "Southwark Boys,"
strays from the slime-sodden east,
FEGAN takes forth in gay troops to the meadows, in freshness of nature to
frolic and feast,
Climb in the woodlands and plunge in the waters, ramble and scramble
through tangle-hedged lanes,
Fish in the pools with youth's primitive tackle, breathe quickening
vigour through bosoms and brains.
Picture the boys "camping out" on the commons, and gipsying gaily in
tents midst the heather,
Armed with their canvas and blankets and boilers and pannikins well
against hunger and weather.
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