The Prophecy of Westminster, And other Poems In Honour of Henry Edward, Cardinal Manning. By Harriet Eleanor Hamilton King |
 |
Bayswater.
|
 | The Prophecy of Westminster, And other Poems |  |
51
Bayswater.
The dreariest, dullest quarter,
Of all the myriad maze,—
Of blank and featureless spaces,
Of bare and dismal ways:—
Of all the myriad maze,—
Of blank and featureless spaces,
Of bare and dismal ways:—
The grey fog lifts, and settles,
And shifts itself at will,
Softening alone the long lines
Of houses, dingier still.
And shifts itself at will,
Softening alone the long lines
Of houses, dingier still.
And there in the early morning,
Along th' unwakened street,
Day after day unfailing
Passed down those blessèd feet.
Along th' unwakened street,
Day after day unfailing
Passed down those blessèd feet.
He went with a heart o'erburdened,
And overwearied brain,
And every step on the pavement
Rang with a thrill of pain.
And overwearied brain,
And every step on the pavement
Rang with a thrill of pain.
52
And beside him, his young deacon
Walked with him as his son;
And neither dreamed of the ending
Of the life that was begun;—
Walked with him as his son;
And neither dreamed of the ending
Of the life that was begun;—
Of the thirty-five years coming,
They should not be apart,
Of the way more glorious growing,
And closer heart in heart;—
They should not be apart,
Of the way more glorious growing,
And closer heart in heart;—
Till the son should be to the father
The staff of his old age,
And the light of the lonely evenings
At the close of pilgrimage.
The staff of his old age,
And the light of the lonely evenings
At the close of pilgrimage.
They carried the Bread of Angels,
Humbly their way they trod,
And no one knew as they met them,
That these were the saints of God.
Humbly their way they trod,
And no one knew as they met them,
That these were the saints of God.
Empty of all but the east wind,
Littered with tatters and straw,
The colourless grimy roadways
Stretching, were all they saw.
Littered with tatters and straw,
The colourless grimy roadways
Stretching, were all they saw.
53
But oh! for ever and ever,
On their heavenly errand bent,
They haunt with their holy presence
The wearisome way they went.
On their heavenly errand bent,
They haunt with their holy presence
The wearisome way they went.
Oh, little they knew in the morning,
In the cold and in the rain,
That any should come hereafter,
And look down the road again,
In the cold and in the rain,
That any should come hereafter,
And look down the road again,
And stand on the stones now sacred,
And say with tear-dimmed eyes,
“This was the way our father walked
On the path of Paradise.”
And say with tear-dimmed eyes,
“This was the way our father walked
On the path of Paradise.”
Now it is spring in England,
Spring of another year;
And all the earth, awakening, knows
He is no longer here.
Spring of another year;
And all the earth, awakening, knows
He is no longer here.
The crocus even is not glad,
Upon his grave it blows;
More chilly is the western wind,
The very blackbird knows.
Upon his grave it blows;
More chilly is the western wind,
The very blackbird knows.
54
The cocks crow loud in the morning,
But no more they say, “Arise!
This day to the house of thy father
Thou shalt go, and meet his eyes.”
But no more they say, “Arise!
This day to the house of thy father
Thou shalt go, and meet his eyes.”
The welcome of his presence
Draws on from mile to mile,
Till the whole vast gloom of London
Is radiant with his smile.
Draws on from mile to mile,
Till the whole vast gloom of London
Is radiant with his smile.
Oh! what has this year left us,
For that light of roses fled?—
We have a place of weeping,
A garden of the dead.
For that light of roses fled?—
We have a place of weeping,
A garden of the dead.
A place that shivers with sorrow,
And cheerless even in May;
Where the grass is trodden and sodden,
And the skies are always grey.
And cheerless even in May;
Where the grass is trodden and sodden,
And the skies are always grey.
O all ye cities of pilgrimage!
Cities of long ago,—
That have the homes, that have the streets,
Where Saints went to and fro,
Cities of long ago,—
That have the homes, that have the streets,
Where Saints went to and fro,
55
That keep their bones, that guard their shrines,
Ye still are far to seek;
Too far for many, even now,
Of lame, and poor, and weak.
Ye still are far to seek;
Too far for many, even now,
Of lame, and poor, and weak.
Now take thy turn, O London!
And be jealous of no compeer;
For the last, it may be the greatest,
Of the Saints, sleeps with us here.
And be jealous of no compeer;
For the last, it may be the greatest,
Of the Saints, sleeps with us here.
| The Prophecy of Westminster, And other Poems | |