 | Poetical Works of Lionel Johnson |  |
182
LAMB
To Alfred Pollard.
Saint Charles!
for Thackeray called thee so:
Saint, at whose name our fond hearts glow:
See now, this age of tedious woe,
That snaps and snarls!
Thine was a life of tragic shade;
A life, of care and sorrow made:
But nought could make thine heart afraid,
Gentle Saint Charles!
Saint, at whose name our fond hearts glow:
See now, this age of tedious woe,
That snaps and snarls!
Thine was a life of tragic shade;
A life, of care and sorrow made:
But nought could make thine heart afraid,
Gentle Saint Charles!
Encumbered dearly with old books,
Thou, by the pleasant chimney nooks,
Didst laugh, with merry-meaning looks,
Thy griefs away:
We, bred on modern magazines,
Point out, how much our sadness means;
And some new woe our wisdom gleans,
Day by dull day.
Thou, by the pleasant chimney nooks,
Didst laugh, with merry-meaning looks,
Thy griefs away:
We, bred on modern magazines,
Point out, how much our sadness means;
And some new woe our wisdom gleans,
Day by dull day.
Lover of London! whilst thy feet
Haunted each old familiar street,
Thy brave heart found life's turmoil sweet,
Despite life's pain.
We fume and fret and, when we can,
Cry up some new and noisy plan,
Big with the Rights and Wrongs of Man:
And where's the gain?
Haunted each old familiar street,
Thy brave heart found life's turmoil sweet,
Despite life's pain.
We fume and fret and, when we can,
Cry up some new and noisy plan,
Big with the Rights and Wrongs of Man:
And where's the gain?
Gentle Saint Charles! I turn to thee,
Tender and true: thou teachest me
To take with joy, what joys there be,
And bear the rest.
Walking thy London day by day,
The thought of thee makes bright my way,
And in thy faith I fain would stay,
Doing my best.
Tender and true: thou teachest me
183
And bear the rest.
Walking thy London day by day,
The thought of thee makes bright my way,
And in thy faith I fain would stay,
Doing my best.
Along the Mall, along the Strand,
Each turn I take, still thou dost stand,
A patron spirit, at mine hand:
So, should my choice,
Beside the dear book-laden stall,
On books not books perversely fall:
Nay! take the play, the pastoral!
Pleads thy wise voice.
Each turn I take, still thou dost stand,
A patron spirit, at mine hand:
So, should my choice,
Beside the dear book-laden stall,
On books not books perversely fall:
Nay! take the play, the pastoral!
Pleads thy wise voice.
So, though the world be full of noise;
And most new books, but foolish toys;
I share with thee thine ancient joys,
Marvell or Quarles:
So, tired with rambling through the Town,
I taste the rich delights of Browne;
With Elia for the evening's crown,
Gentle Saint Charles!
And most new books, but foolish toys;
I share with thee thine ancient joys,
Marvell or Quarles:
So, tired with rambling through the Town,
I taste the rich delights of Browne;
With Elia for the evening's crown,
Gentle Saint Charles!
1891.
| Poetical Works of Lionel Johnson | |