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Carol and Cadence

New poems: MDCCCCII-MDCCCCVII: By John Payne

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LONDON BY NIGHT.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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LONDON BY NIGHT.

Twilight thickens o'er sea and land;
Spent are the sun's last rays:
Ghostlike creeping, with feet of haze,
Already shadows the lowlands drown;
And I on the hill-top's crest I stand,
Where a silver line in the South foresays
The climbing feet of the coming moon;
And down on the valley below I gaze,

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Where, 'neath Night's gathering frown,
As 'twere a sea, aswoon
Fallen and fixed in its wild wave-play,
Stricken to silence of ended day,
Eastward and Westward and up and down,
Gable on gable of black and grey,
Roof-tops on billowy roof-tops brown,
Sparkles and darkles, amorphous, the dim-seen town.
London, likeness on earth of hell,
There, in thy perilous pit,
Huddled together like souls in pine,
Herded of sorrow like hapless sheep,
Far from the fields and the free sun's shine,
Each to other in slavery knit,
Loveless linked by the conquering spell
Of fear and Fortune, in darkness deep
Of doubt there dwell
Millions of men who have no sleep
Nor know, for carefulness, night from morn.
There, in the bounds of Life's prison-bars,
Fierce and forlorn,
They range, wild-beast like, and wrangle and toil and weep,
Under the unbeholding sun and moon
Whether it be or stern unsympathizing stars.
Ocean of pine and pain,
Bottomless abysm of doubt and dole,
More of monsters than any main,
Fuller of fear than the dreariest deep,
Billowed beneath the Pole,
Where, 'neath the shimmering stars asleep,
It wakes, as the whales in the midnight whirl and leap,
Who shall thy fathomless waters sound?
Tide thou knowest nor ebb nor flow;
None may number thy wrecked and drowned.
Still, through the ages' resonant round,

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Thy roaring surges clamouring go;
And none shall hearken the tale of their sullen song,
Till mortals all,
Both great and small,
From sleep aroused by the trumpet's sound,
Lift up the head,
Till high and low,
Till quick and dead,
At the last great summons, to judgment throng.