The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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THE DEATH OF LONDON
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 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
132
THE DEATH OF LONDON
When the great city sleeps amid the reeds,—
Yea, when the silent far-off centuries bring
Peace on their wing,—
When to wild toil the supreme rest succeeds,—
When linnets sing
Where now through Blackfriars Bridge the brown stream speeds,—
When Westminster is deep in water-weeds,—
Death shall be lord and king.
Yea, when the silent far-off centuries bring
Peace on their wing,—
When to wild toil the supreme rest succeeds,—
When linnets sing
Where now through Blackfriars Bridge the brown stream speeds,—
When Westminster is deep in water-weeds,—
Death shall be lord and king.
The Thames comes circling from wild days afar;
Once matted rushes filled the water-way
Where grand and grey
The tall-towered Abbey meets the morning-star;
From day to day
The awful weary ceaseless town has grown,—
The skies have heard its multitudinous moan,—
Centuries have fled away.
Once matted rushes filled the water-way
Where grand and grey
The tall-towered Abbey meets the morning-star;
From day to day
The awful weary ceaseless town has grown,—
The skies have heard its multitudinous moan,—
Centuries have fled away.
133
Centuries have seen the sorrow of the town:
O'er the grey Abbey close beside the stream
Moonrays that gleam
And fiery suns of summer have flung down
Through deed and dream
Their love and pity;—and the water brown
Has surged around the bridges as they frown
Over the waves with heavy arch and beam.
O'er the grey Abbey close beside the stream
Moonrays that gleam
And fiery suns of summer have flung down
Through deed and dream
Their love and pity;—and the water brown
Has surged around the bridges as they frown
Over the waves with heavy arch and beam.
What cries of woe the silent skies have heard!
Shrieks not of bird
But of lone desolate pale human thing,
With fluttered wing
Seeking the peace the river's dark waves bring.
What secrets strange and deep
In the grim tideway sleep:
And yet in June how the blue ripples sing!
Shrieks not of bird
But of lone desolate pale human thing,
With fluttered wing
Seeking the peace the river's dark waves bring.
What secrets strange and deep
In the grim tideway sleep:
And yet in June how the blue ripples sing!
What awful speechless pain of woman and man,
Since the great stream began
To eddy around the roadways of a town,
Its dark waves drown!
What tides of strife have coursed along the streets!
Yet still to-day the city's live heart beats;
And still within its leaf-embosomed squares
The gold laburnum kisses the spring airs.
Since the great stream began
To eddy around the roadways of a town,
Its dark waves drown!
134
Yet still to-day the city's live heart beats;
And still within its leaf-embosomed squares
The gold laburnum kisses the spring airs.
O London, thou most terrible of cities!
What was primeval Babylon to thee?
Or Carthage, or old Rome, or Nineveh?
Thee the red moon that riseth o'er thee pities,—
Yea, the sun weeps for thee:
The Thames is but the river of thy tears
Seeking through wooden arch and granite piers
The sea.
What was primeval Babylon to thee?
Or Carthage, or old Rome, or Nineveh?
Thee the red moon that riseth o'er thee pities,—
Yea, the sun weeps for thee:
The Thames is but the river of thy tears
Seeking through wooden arch and granite piers
The sea.
Paris,—ah! Paris. White and fair she sits,
Crowned and a queen.
Through her bright fairy streets the light air flits
Soft and serene.
Her streets have foamed with blood;—and yet most fair
Like a sweet tourney-queen she sitteth there,
And all her pain seems vanished like the pain
Of dead flowers that no June brings here again.
Crowned and a queen.
Through her bright fairy streets the light air flits
Soft and serene.
Her streets have foamed with blood;—and yet most fair
Like a sweet tourney-queen she sitteth there,
And all her pain seems vanished like the pain
Of dead flowers that no June brings here again.
135
Paris has seen Napoleon,—and has heard
The tread of conquerors—twice: but our grim town
Unconquered ever wears its own grim crown,
And hearkens ever to its river's word.
Its grey and sunless springs
Have witnessed wilder things
Than e'en the springs of Paris,—though they be
Blood-bright and sun-illumed alternately.
The tread of conquerors—twice: but our grim town
Unconquered ever wears its own grim crown,
And hearkens ever to its river's word.
Its grey and sunless springs
Have witnessed wilder things
Than e'en the springs of Paris,—though they be
Blood-bright and sun-illumed alternately.
Ah! the fair eyes that in the city's deep
Have sunk to sleep:
Ah! the strong hearts that underneath the light
So weird and white
Of that same moon have yielded to despair:
The golden hair
On which the London gaslight has shone down,—
The soft lips slain by horrors of the town!
Have sunk to sleep:
Ah! the strong hearts that underneath the light
So weird and white
Of that same moon have yielded to despair:
The golden hair
On which the London gaslight has shone down,—
The soft lips slain by horrors of the town!
Through century after century the same cry
Still storms the sky:
Men still are born; and passion's rose is born
And lives one morn;—
But still the pitiless brown river leaps
Through arch and pier,
And still the moonlight on the water sleeps,
So silver-clear!
Still storms the sky:
Men still are born; and passion's rose is born
And lives one morn;—
136
Through arch and pier,
And still the moonlight on the water sleeps,
So silver-clear!
Wars we have had: ah! many a stirring day.
How in that grey
Cold spring the Guards' battalions marched away
To the Eastern plains!
Little the skies and stars and clouds can care;
Still the same river singeth in our ear
Through suns and rains
Its one same endless soulless note and clear.
How in that grey
Cold spring the Guards' battalions marched away
To the Eastern plains!
Little the skies and stars and clouds can care;
Still the same river singeth in our ear
Through suns and rains
Its one same endless soulless note and clear.
And so it shall be to the very end;
Till all towers fall:
Till the high stones of Westminster descend;
Till night clothes all:
Till in the peace that knows not change nor waking
The city rests, a ruin: till moonlight making
The ripples silver,—sunset and day-breaking,—
See nought but sand and weeds, or perhaps a moss-grown wall.
Till all towers fall:
Till the high stones of Westminster descend;
Till night clothes all:
Till in the peace that knows not change nor waking
The city rests, a ruin: till moonlight making
The ripples silver,—sunset and day-breaking,—
See nought but sand and weeds, or perhaps a moss-grown wall.
137
It shall be better then: all shall be peace
Again the reeds shall fill
The quiet stream; all human sounds shall cease:
All shall be sweet and still.
The thrush again shall trill
Forth tender love-notes to his listening mate
Amid tall trees where once was pomp and state:
Grass shall deck Holborn Hill.
Again the reeds shall fill
The quiet stream; all human sounds shall cease:
All shall be sweet and still.
The thrush again shall trill
Forth tender love-notes to his listening mate
Amid tall trees where once was pomp and state:
Grass shall deck Holborn Hill.
Oh how the lark shall soar above green meadows
Where once lost women strolled!
Across the Strand shall stretch great elm-trees' shadows!
Bright buttercups of gold
Shall fill the silent deserts of the squares,
And birch and hazel and oak
Shall glisten under fogless summer airs
Where men's hearts sank, and women's spirits broke.
Where once lost women strolled!
Across the Strand shall stretch great elm-trees' shadows!
Bright buttercups of gold
Shall fill the silent deserts of the squares,
And birch and hazel and oak
Shall glisten under fogless summer airs
Where men's hearts sank, and women's spirits broke.
March, 1882.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |