Michael Villiers, Idealist And Other Poems. By E. H. Hickey |
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A LAY OF LONDON TOWN
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 | Michael Villiers, Idealist |  |
139
A LAY OF LONDON TOWN
What the Heart of the Old Man Sayeth
Oh, I came to London Town, in the days of long ago,
With the springtide on my head, and a heart with spring aglow;
Glad of soul and blithe was I, who had oftentimes been told
How the streets of London Town they are surely paved with gold;
I should bask in Fortune's smile, I should never see her frown
In the heart of London Town.
With the springtide on my head, and a heart with spring aglow;
Glad of soul and blithe was I, who had oftentimes been told
How the streets of London Town they are surely paved with gold;
I should bask in Fortune's smile, I should never see her frown
In the heart of London Town.
Then the life of youth was mine, and I dreamt the dreams of youth,
And I thought of beauty's self, and the very truth of truth;
I should fight and I should win, I should strive and I should gain;
Yea, a goodly life were mine, and a mastery o'er pain;
I should do as strong ones do, and my brow should wear the crown
Of true work in London Town.
And I thought of beauty's self, and the very truth of truth;
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Yea, a goodly life were mine, and a mastery o'er pain;
I should do as strong ones do, and my brow should wear the crown
Of true work in London Town.
I should keep my heart of love for the dear old country folk;
I should stand erect and strong as the stalwart ash and oak;
In the gold-paved city's heart I should pile up heaps of gold
For my well-beloved ones; they should have and they should hold;
Broadcloth brave should father don, mother wear a silken gown,
Gained for them in London Town.
I should stand erect and strong as the stalwart ash and oak;
In the gold-paved city's heart I should pile up heaps of gold
For my well-beloved ones; they should have and they should hold;
Broadcloth brave should father don, mother wear a silken gown,
Gained for them in London Town.
Now a many years are gone, and a many dreams are fled,
And a many hopes are lost, and a many friends are dead.
Have I proved all vanity, as the world-sick preacher saith,
In the bitterness of loss, and the bitterness of death?
Have all splendid hopes that grew in the field of youth died down
On thy heart, O London Town?
And a many hopes are lost, and a many friends are dead.
Have I proved all vanity, as the world-sick preacher saith,
In the bitterness of loss, and the bitterness of death?
141
On thy heart, O London Town?
'Twas for London Town, long since, I gave up the country sweet,
Gracious air about my head, gracious grass about my feet;
Voice of woodland, torrents' rush, mountain summits grand and proud,
Songs of birds that cannot sing 'mid the cry and throng and crowd,
For the busy traffic's roar, and the fogdom heavy and brown
Of thy streets, O London Town.
Gracious air about my head, gracious grass about my feet;
Voice of woodland, torrents' rush, mountain summits grand and proud,
Songs of birds that cannot sing 'mid the cry and throng and crowd,
For the busy traffic's roar, and the fogdom heavy and brown
Of thy streets, O London Town.
Loss, and nought but loss, ye say, and ye say I ne'er shall know
Any beautiful delight like the joy of long ago;
Never more the tranquil sweets of the country dear and fair,
Never any coolness like mountain breath upon my hair:
Oh, the glory is gone for aye, do ye say, life's end and crown
As I sit in London Town?
Any beautiful delight like the joy of long ago;
Never more the tranquil sweets of the country dear and fair,
Never any coolness like mountain breath upon my hair:
Oh, the glory is gone for aye, do ye say, life's end and crown
As I sit in London Town?
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What, ye think the aim of all should be peace and quietude,
Little brooklets running soft, never mighty roar and flood?
What, ye think that none is blest save who lifteth happy eyes
To the green of woodland trees and the blue of country skies?
Nay, but your philosophy has not dreamt or guessed or known
That which bides in London Town.
Little brooklets running soft, never mighty roar and flood?
What, ye think that none is blest save who lifteth happy eyes
To the green of woodland trees and the blue of country skies?
Nay, but your philosophy has not dreamt or guessed or known
That which bides in London Town.
It was true what country folk long ago to me had told,
How the streets of London Town they are surely paved with gold;
Of that paving, by God's grace, some small portion have I won,
Better than the share that fell to the lot of Whittington,
When the song o' the bells came true, bells that hailed him, country clown,
Thrice Lord Mayor of London Town!
How the streets of London Town they are surely paved with gold;
Of that paving, by God's grace, some small portion have I won,
Better than the share that fell to the lot of Whittington,
When the song o' the bells came true, bells that hailed him, country clown,
Thrice Lord Mayor of London Town!
Oh, the streets of London Town are alive with all the glow
Of the glorious feet that walked up and down so long ago;
And we know of things that pass all the power of voice and speech,
By the stately eloquence of the city's sweep and reach;
Splendid strength and fairest grace, from whose shadow light drops down
On thy head, O London Town!
Of the glorious feet that walked up and down so long ago;
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By the stately eloquence of the city's sweep and reach;
Splendid strength and fairest grace, from whose shadow light drops down
On thy head, O London Town!
Oh, the beat of eager hearts! Oh, the glory of life's great race!
Ever on and onward yet, with a never-slackening pace!
And the rushing sound is like swirl of some mysterious seas,
And one glows to feel one's heart just a-beat with hearts like these.
Oh, delight of strenuous life, past all speech and all renown,
In thy heart, great London Town!
Ever on and onward yet, with a never-slackening pace!
And the rushing sound is like swirl of some mysterious seas,
And one glows to feel one's heart just a-beat with hearts like these.
Oh, delight of strenuous life, past all speech and all renown,
In thy heart, great London Town!
‘Nay, but hush!’ ye say, ‘or else lift thy voice and cry aloud,
Do not sing a triumph-song; sit as one in darkness bowed;
How should any poet dare to be glad and proud who knows
Of the horror brooding thick, of the bitter deathly throes—
Mad injustice, rampant sin, keeping state and grinding down
Body and soul in London Town!
Do not sing a triumph-song; sit as one in darkness bowed;
How should any poet dare to be glad and proud who knows
Of the horror brooding thick, of the bitter deathly throes—
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Body and soul in London Town!
‘Splendid things hath London Town? Dreadful things she knoweth too;
Dost thou dare, O poet, turn eyes away, nor face their view?
Sin and horror sitting throned, over thousands holding sway,
Deadly foulness stifling close, blotting out the gracious day.
Will the Light that lighteth men ever pierce this fogdom brown
Brooding over London Town?’
Dost thou dare, O poet, turn eyes away, nor face their view?
Sin and horror sitting throned, over thousands holding sway,
Deadly foulness stifling close, blotting out the gracious day.
Will the Light that lighteth men ever pierce this fogdom brown
Brooding over London Town?’
And I answer, ‘Brothers, yea, in my heart I know this thing,
Yet I lift my heart to praise, and I lift my voice to sing;
For I know however dark be the cloud, the sun is there,
And I know the hope of God, and I cast aside despair;
Yes, the deathly fog will lift, and the Light of lights pierce down
To the heart of London Town.’
Yet I lift my heart to praise, and I lift my voice to sing;
For I know however dark be the cloud, the sun is there,
And I know the hope of God, and I cast aside despair;
Yes, the deathly fog will lift, and the Light of lights pierce down
To the heart of London Town.’
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I have lost the hopes of youth, but a better hope is mine;
I have lost old blind belief, but I cling to faith divine;
Spilt the cup of youth's bright wine, but my soul hath drunken deep
Of the awful river of life, stream whose waters never sleep.
Little vessels may brim o'er with the self-same floods which drown
In their greatness, London Town!
I have lost old blind belief, but I cling to faith divine;
Spilt the cup of youth's bright wine, but my soul hath drunken deep
Of the awful river of life, stream whose waters never sleep.
Little vessels may brim o'er with the self-same floods which drown
In their greatness, London Town!
Yes, I see the wrong that's piled on the wrong of centuries,
Till redressing seems to mean slaying those to quicken these;
English women pined and starved till despair has bid them meet,
Face to face and hand to hand, death, or life upon the street;
English men in manhood's prime, soul and body trampled down
In the depth of London Town.
Till redressing seems to mean slaying those to quicken these;
English women pined and starved till despair has bid them meet,
Face to face and hand to hand, death, or life upon the street;
English men in manhood's prime, soul and body trampled down
In the depth of London Town.
This I see, and more I see; yea, I see the hearts that burn
With the flame that nigh consumes, and my heart on them doth yearn;
And I clasp their loyal hands, bless them as they go along,
Great hearts, loving much the right, therefore hating much the wrong;
Going on for no reward, caring not to win renown
As they work in London Town.
With the flame that nigh consumes, and my heart on them doth yearn;
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Great hearts, loving much the right, therefore hating much the wrong;
Going on for no reward, caring not to win renown
As they work in London Town.
Oh, I see them dare the plunge; oh, I watch them breast the flood,
Stretch their hands abroad to swim, these our gallant ones and good;
And I see the heavy surge of the great wan water rise,
Till it dash above their heads, till it hide them from my eyes.
Will they reach the sinking ones, whom the floods are fain to drown?
Yes, and save in London Town!
Stretch their hands abroad to swim, these our gallant ones and good;
And I see the heavy surge of the great wan water rise,
Till it dash above their heads, till it hide them from my eyes.
Will they reach the sinking ones, whom the floods are fain to drown?
Yes, and save in London Town!
Ay, because of such as these, I am glad that I can say
I have lived in London Town, as I stand and breathe today;
And I glow to look on those who would give the rights of men
To the men who suffer so, having lost them, once again;
And I think that God doth smile on their work, to bless and crown
This their work in London Town.
I have lived in London Town, as I stand and breathe today;
And I glow to look on those who would give the rights of men
To the men who suffer so, having lost them, once again;
And I think that God doth smile on their work, to bless and crown
This their work in London Town.
| Michael Villiers, Idealist | |