 | Poetical Works of Lionel Johnson |  |
LONDON TOWN
To Arthur Mackmurdo.
Let others chaunt a country praise,
Fair river walks and meadow ways;
Dearer to me my sounding days
In London Town:
To me the tumult of the street
Is no less music, than the sweet
Surge of the wind among the wheat,
By dale or down.
Fair river walks and meadow ways;
Dearer to me my sounding days
In London Town:
To me the tumult of the street
Is no less music, than the sweet
Surge of the wind among the wheat,
By dale or down.
Three names mine heart with rapture hails,
With homage: Ireland, Cornwall, Wales:
Lands of lone moor, and mountain gales,
And stormy coast:
Yet London's voice upon the air
Pleads at mine heart, and enters there;
Sometimes I wellnigh love and care
For London most.
With homage: Ireland, Cornwall, Wales:
Lands of lone moor, and mountain gales,
And stormy coast:
Yet London's voice upon the air
Pleads at mine heart, and enters there;
Sometimes I wellnigh love and care
For London most.
Listen upon the ancient hills:
All silence! save the lark, who trills
Through sunlight, save the rippling rills:
There peace may be.
But listen to great London! loud,
As thunder from the purple cloud,
Comes the deep thunder of the crowd,
And heartens me.
All silence! save the lark, who trills
Through sunlight, save the rippling rills:
There peace may be.
176
As thunder from the purple cloud,
Comes the deep thunder of the crowd,
And heartens me.
O gray, O gloomy skies! What then?
Here is a marvellous world of men;
More wonderful than Rome was, when
The world was Rome!
See the great stream of life flow by!
Here thronging myriads laugh and sigh,
Here rise and fall, here live and die:
In this vast home.
Here is a marvellous world of men;
More wonderful than Rome was, when
The world was Rome!
See the great stream of life flow by!
Here thronging myriads laugh and sigh,
Here rise and fall, here live and die:
In this vast home.
In long array they march toward death,
Armies, with proud or piteous breath:
Forward! the spirit in them saith,
Spirit of life:
Here the triumphant trumpets blow;
Here mourning music sorrows low;
Victors and vanquished, still they go
Forward in strife.
Armies, with proud or piteous breath:
Forward! the spirit in them saith,
Spirit of life:
Here the triumphant trumpets blow;
Here mourning music sorrows low;
Victors and vanquished, still they go
Forward in strife.
Who will not heed so great a sight?
Greater than marshalled stars of night,
That move to music and with light:
For these are men!
These move to music of the soul;
Passions, that madden or control:
These hunger for a distant goal,
Seen now and then.
Greater than marshalled stars of night,
That move to music and with light:
For these are men!
These move to music of the soul;
Passions, that madden or control:
These hunger for a distant goal,
Seen now and then.
177
Is mine too tragical a strain,
Chaunting a burden full of pain,
And labour, that seems all in vain?
I sing but truth.
Still, many a merry pleasure yet,
To many a merry measure set,
Is ours, who need not to forget
Summer and youth.
Chaunting a burden full of pain,
And labour, that seems all in vain?
I sing but truth.
Still, many a merry pleasure yet,
To many a merry measure set,
Is ours, who need not to forget
Summer and youth.
Do London birds forget to sing?
Do London trees refuse the spring?
Is London May no pleasant thing?
Let country fields,
To milking maid and shepherd boy,
Give flowers, and song, and bright employ:
Her children also can enjoy,
What London yields.
Do London trees refuse the spring?
Is London May no pleasant thing?
Let country fields,
To milking maid and shepherd boy,
Give flowers, and song, and bright employ:
Her children also can enjoy,
What London yields.
Gleaming with sunlight, each soft lawn
Lies fragrant beneath dew of dawn;
The spires and towers rise, far withdrawn,
Through golden mist:
At sunset, linger beside Thames:
See now, what radiant lights and flames!
That ruby burns: that purple shames
The amethyst.
Lies fragrant beneath dew of dawn;
The spires and towers rise, far withdrawn,
Through golden mist:
At sunset, linger beside Thames:
See now, what radiant lights and flames!
That ruby burns: that purple shames
The amethyst.
Winter was long, and dark, and cold:
Chill rains! grim fogs, black fold on fold,
Round street, and square, and river rolled!
Ah, let it be:
Winter is gone! Soon comes July,
With wafts from hayfields by-and-by:
While in the dingiest courts you spy
Flowers fair to see.
Chill rains! grim fogs, black fold on fold,
Round street, and square, and river rolled!
Ah, let it be:
178
With wafts from hayfields by-and-by:
While in the dingiest courts you spy
Flowers fair to see.
Take heart of grace: and let each hour
Break gently into bloom and flower:
Winter and sorrow have no power
To blight all bloom.
One day, perchance, the sun will see
London's entire felicity:
And all her loyal children be
Clear of all gloom.
Break gently into bloom and flower:
Winter and sorrow have no power
To blight all bloom.
One day, perchance, the sun will see
London's entire felicity:
And all her loyal children be
Clear of all gloom.
A dream? Dreams often dreamed come true:
Our world would seem a world made new
To those, beneath the churchyard yew
Laid long ago!
When we beneath like shadows bide,
Fair London, throned upon Thames' side,
May be our children's children's pride:
And we shall know.
Our world would seem a world made new
To those, beneath the churchyard yew
Laid long ago!
When we beneath like shadows bide,
Fair London, throned upon Thames' side,
May be our children's children's pride:
And we shall know.
1891.
| Poetical Works of Lionel Johnson | |