The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth With Sixteen Illustrations. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton |
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THE CENTRAL HALL
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 | The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth |  |
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THE CENTRAL HALL
IN THE NEW PALACE AT WESTMINSTER.
Between those glorious chambers whence proceed
The laws that govern England, lies a way
Through many vaulted corridors and halls,
So straight that—when the folding-gates of brass,
The beautiful gates before the House of Peers,
And those more modest doors of British oak
That close the entrance to the other place,
Are open—from the Speaker's chair direct
Unto the royal throne, a path is clear,
Whereby the golden splendour of that seat
Gleams through a line of halls and corridors
Into the Commons' House.
The laws that govern England, lies a way
Through many vaulted corridors and halls,
So straight that—when the folding-gates of brass,
The beautiful gates before the House of Peers,
And those more modest doors of British oak
That close the entrance to the other place,
Are open—from the Speaker's chair direct
Unto the royal throne, a path is clear,
Whereby the golden splendour of that seat
Gleams through a line of halls and corridors
Into the Commons' House.
And in the midst
There is a Central Hall—an octagon,
Lofty and rich, like some fair chapter-house,
Whence other ways pass forth to other halls,
To one whose frescoes realise the dreams
Of our great poets; and another where
Will stand gigantic statues of the dead
Who in times past made England what she is.
And through this marble avenue you pass
Down to the fine old hall of Westminster,
Where the death-sentence with sad, solemn tones,
Too often sounded in a sterner time.
There is a Central Hall—an octagon,
Lofty and rich, like some fair chapter-house,
Whence other ways pass forth to other halls,
To one whose frescoes realise the dreams
334
Will stand gigantic statues of the dead
Who in times past made England what she is.
And through this marble avenue you pass
Down to the fine old hall of Westminster,
Where the death-sentence with sad, solemn tones,
Too often sounded in a sterner time.
Such are the precincts of the Central Hall.
And when I stand beneath the chandelier,
Of Gothic brass most exquisitely wrought,
Suspended through the opening in the roof—
(A ring with eight large bosses richly carved,
To which the ribs of all the vault converge)—
I feel that I am at the very heart
And inmost centre of our modern life;
For in that hall there waits a messenger
More swift and mighty than the Genii
Of whom we read in old Arabian tales.
He is your slave—command him! He will fly
By night or day to far provincial towns,
And take your message—yes! the very words,
And bring an answer instantly. Nay, more—
If you should tell this spirit—for he hath
No substance more corporeal or gross
Than lightest Ariels born of poets' dreams—
If you should tell this spirit to proceed
To one of those old cities on the Loire,
Amongst the vineyards in the south of France,
The sea would not deter him. Where the waves
Sap the chalk cliffs at Dover he will dive,
And shoot as swiftly through the density
Of the deep waters as through summer air,
And rise upon the distant shore of France,
Which as a thin, faint line, the sentinel
At Dover, looking from the castle cliff,
Sees when the day is clear. There is no sign
Upon the sea that our swift messenger
Has passed beneath it and returned again.
He does not break the surface when he dives;
He rises unperceived, invisible
As exhalations on a cloudless day.
And when he leaves the Palace, or returns,
No doors are opened. In his swiftest flight
He moves in perfect silence, like a sphere
Sweeping its noiseless circle round the sun.
And when I stand beneath the chandelier,
Of Gothic brass most exquisitely wrought,
Suspended through the opening in the roof—
(A ring with eight large bosses richly carved,
To which the ribs of all the vault converge)—
I feel that I am at the very heart
And inmost centre of our modern life;
For in that hall there waits a messenger
More swift and mighty than the Genii
Of whom we read in old Arabian tales.
He is your slave—command him! He will fly
By night or day to far provincial towns,
And take your message—yes! the very words,
And bring an answer instantly. Nay, more—
If you should tell this spirit—for he hath
No substance more corporeal or gross
Than lightest Ariels born of poets' dreams—
If you should tell this spirit to proceed
To one of those old cities on the Loire,
335
The sea would not deter him. Where the waves
Sap the chalk cliffs at Dover he will dive,
And shoot as swiftly through the density
Of the deep waters as through summer air,
And rise upon the distant shore of France,
Which as a thin, faint line, the sentinel
At Dover, looking from the castle cliff,
Sees when the day is clear. There is no sign
Upon the sea that our swift messenger
Has passed beneath it and returned again.
He does not break the surface when he dives;
He rises unperceived, invisible
As exhalations on a cloudless day.
And when he leaves the Palace, or returns,
No doors are opened. In his swiftest flight
He moves in perfect silence, like a sphere
Sweeping its noiseless circle round the sun.
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