London_Girl
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Suggested by the Cover of a Volume of Keats's Poems Wild little bird, who chose thee for a sign To put upon the cover of this book? Who heard thee singing in the distance dim, The vague, far greenness of the enshrouding wood, When the damp freshness of the morning earth Was full of pungent sweetness and thy song?
Who followed over moss and twisted roots, And pushed through the wet leaves of trailing vines Where slanting sunbeams gleamed uncertainly, While ever clearer came the dropping notes, Until, at last, two widening trunks disclosed Thee singing on a spray of branching beech, Hidden, then seen; and always that same song Of joyful sweetness, rapture incarnate, Filled the hushed, rustling stillness of the wood?
We do not know what bird thou art. Perhaps That fairy bird, fabled in island tale, Who never sings but once, and then his song Is of such fearful beauty that he dies From sheer exuberance of melody.
For this they took thee, little bird, for this They captured thee, tilting among the leaves, And stamped thee for a symbol on this book. For it contains a song surpassing thine, Richer, more sweet, more poignant. And the poet Who felt this burning beauty, and whose heart Was full of loveliest things, sang all he knew A little while, and then he died; too frail To bear this untamed, passionate burst of song.
London_Girl
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Before the Altar Before the Altar, bowed, he stands With empty hands; Upon it perfumed offerings burn Wreathing with smoke the sacrificial urn. Not one of all these has he given, No flame of his has leapt to Heaven Firesouled, vermilion-hearted, Forked, and darted, Consuming what a few spare pence Have cheaply bought, to fling from hence In idly-asked petition.
His sole condition Love and poverty. And while the moon Swings slow across the sky, Athwart a waving pine tree, And soon Tips all the needles there With silver sparkles, bitterly He gazes, while his soul Grows hard with thinking of the poorness of his dole.
"Shining and distant Goddess, hear my prayer Where you swim in the high air! With charity look down on me, Under this tree, Tending the gifts I have not brought, The rare and goodly things I have not sought. Instead, take from me all my life!
"Upon the wings Of shimmering moonbeams I pack my poet's dreams For you. My wearying strife, My courage, my loss, Into the night I toss For you. Golden Divinity, Deign to look down on me Who so unworthily Offers to you: All life has known, Seeds withered unsown, Hopes turning quick to fears, Laughter which dies in tears. The shredded remnant of a man Is all the span And compass of my offering to you.
"Empty and silent, I Kneel before your pure, calm majesty. On this stone, in this urn I pour my heart and watch it burn, Myself the sacrifice; but be Still unmoved: Divinity."
From the altar, bathed in moonlight, The smoke rose straight in the quiet night.
London_Girl
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The Glory of the Garden
OUR England is a garden that is full of stately views, Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues, With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by; But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye.
For where the thick laurels grow, along the thin red wall, You will find the tool- and potting-sheds which are the heart of all; The cold-frames and the hot-houses, the dungpits and the tanks, The rollers, carts and drain-pipes, with the barrows and the planks.
And there you'll see the gardners, the men and 'prentice boys Told off to do as they are bid and to it without noise; For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds, The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words.
And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose, And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows; But they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and loam, For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come.
Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made By singing:--"Oh, how beautiful!" and sitting in the shade, While better men than we go out and start their working lives At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives.
There's not a pair of legs so thin, there's not a head so thick, There's not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick, But it can find some needful job that's crying to be done, For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one.
Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders, It it's only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders; And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden, You will find yourself a partner in the Glory of the Garden.
Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees That half a proper gardener's work is done upon his knees, So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray For the Glory of the Garden, that it may not pass away! For the Glory of the Garden, that it may not pass away!
London_Girl
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The Bells and Queen Victoria 1911
"Gay go up and gay go down To ring the Bells of London Town." When London Town's asleep in bed You'll hear the Bells ring overhead. In excelsis gloria! Ringing for Victoria, Ringing for their mighty mistress--ten years dead!
The Bells: HERE is more gain than Gloriana guessed-- Than Gloriana guessed or Indies bring-- Than golden Indies bring. A Queen confessed-- A queen confessed that crowned her people King. Her people King, and crowned all Kings above, Above all Kings have crowned their Queen their love-- Have crowned their love their Queen, their Queen their love!
Denying her, we do ourselves deny, Disowning her are we ourselves disowned. Mirror was she of our fidelity, And handmaid of our destiny enthroned; The very marrow of Youth's dream, and still Yoke-mate of wisest Age that worked her will!
Our fathers had declared to us her praise-- Her praise the years had proven past all speech. And past all speech our loyal hearts always, Always our hearts lay open, each to each-- Therefore men gave the treasure of their blood To this one woman--for she understood!
Four o' the clock! Now all the world is still, Oh, London Bells, to all the world declare The Secret of the Empire--read who will! The Glory of the People--touch who dare!
The Bells: Power that has reached itself all kingly powers, St. Margaret's: By love o'erpowered-- St. Martin's: By love o'erpowered-- St Clement Danes: By love o'erpowered, The greater power confers!
The Bells: Bow Bells: And she was ours-- St Paul's: And she was ours-- Westminster: And she was ours, As we, even we were hers!
London_Girl
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The Secret of the Machines Modern Machinery
WE were taken from the ore-bed and the mine, We were melted in the furnace and the pit-- We were cast and wrought and hammered to design, We were cut and filed and tooled and gauged to fit. Some water, coal, and oil is all we ask, And a thousandth of an inch to give us play; And now, if you will set us to our task, We will serve you four and twenty hours a day!
We can pull and haul and push and lift and drive, We can print and plough and weave and heat and light, We can run and race and swim and fly and dive, We can see and hear and count and read and write!
Would you call a friend from half across the world? If you'll let us have his name and town and state, You shall see and hear your cracking question hurled Across the arch of heaven while you wait. Has he answered? Does he need you at his side? You can start this very evening if you choose, And take the Western Ocean in the stride Of seventy thousand horses and some screws!
The boat-express is waiting your command! You will find the Mauretania at the quay, Till her captain turns the lever 'neath his hand, And the monstrous nine-decked city goes to sea.
Do you wish to make the moutains bare their head And lay their new-cut forests at your feet? Do you want to turn a river in its bed, Or plant a barren wilderness with wheat? Shall we pipe aloft and bring you water down, From the never-failing cistern of the snows, To work the mills and tramways in your town, And irrigate your orchards as it flows?
It is easy! Give us dynamite and drills! Watch the iron-shouldered rocks lie down and quake, As the thirsty desert-level floods and fills, And the valley we have dammed becomes a lake.
But, remember, please, the Law by which we live, We are not built to comprehend a lie, We can neither love nor pity nor forgive. If you make a slip in handling us you die! We are greater than the Peoples or the Kings-- Be humble, as you crawl beneath our rods!-- Our touch can alter all created things, We are everything on earth--except The Gods!
Though our smoke may hide the Heavens from your eyes; It will vanish and the stars will shine again, Because, for all our power and weight and size, We are nothing more than children of your brain!
London_Girl
Age: 124
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Big Steamers 1914-1918
"OH, where are you going to, all you Big Steamers, With England's own coal, up and down the salt seas?" "We are going to fetch you your bread and your butter, Your beef, pork, and mutton, eggs, apples, and cheese."
"And where will you fetch it from, all you Big Steamers, And where shall I write you when you are away?" "We fetch it from Melbourne, Quebec, and Vancouver-- Address us at Hobart, Hong-Kong, and Bombay."
"But if anything happened to all you Big Steamers, And suppose you were wrecked up and down the salt sea?" "Then you'd have no coffee or bacon for breakfast, And you'd have no muffins or toast for your tea."
"Then I'll pray for fine weather for all you Big Steamers, For little blue billows and breezes so soft." "Oh, billows and breezes don't bother Big Steamers, For we're iron below and steel-rigging aloft."
"Then I'll build a new lighthouse for all you Big Steamers, With plenty wise pilots to pilot you through." "Oh, the Channel's as bright as a ball-room already, And pilots are thicker than pilchards at Looe."
"Then what can I do for you, all you Big Steamers, Oh, what can I do for your comfort and good?" "Send out your big warships to watch your big waters, That no one may stop us from bringing your food."
"For the bread that you eat and the biscuits you nibble, The sweets that you suck and the joints that you carve, They are brought to you daily by all us Big Steamers-- And if any one hinders our coming you'll starve!"
London_Girl
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The French Wars Napoleonic
THE boats of Newhaven and Folkestone and Dover To Dieppe and Boulogne and to Calais cross over; And in each of those runs there is not a square yard Where the English and French haven't fought and fought hard!
If the ships that were sunk could be floated once more They'd stretch like a raft from the shore to the shore, And we'd see, as we crossed, every pattern and plan Of ship that was built since sea-fighting began.
There'd be biremes and brigantines, cutters and sloops, Cogs, carracks, and galleons with gay gilded poops-- Hoys, caravels, ketches, corvettes and the rest, As thick as regattas, from Ramsgate to Brest.
But the galleys of Cæsar, the squadrons of Sluys, And Nelson's crack frigates are hid from our eyes, Where the high Seventy-fours of Napoleon's days Lie down with Deal luggers and French chasse-marées.
They'll answer no signal--they rest on the ooze, With their honey-combed guns and their skeleton crews-- And racing above them, through sunshine or gale, The Cross-Channel packets come in with the Mail.
Then the poor sea-sick passengers, English and French, Must open their trunks on the Custom-house bench, While the officers rummage for smuggled cigars And nobody thinks of our blood-thirsty wars!
London_Girl
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The American Rebellion 1776
BEFORE
TWAS not while England's sword unsheathed Put half a world to flight, Nor while their new-built cities breathed Secure behind her might; Not while she poured from Pole to Line Treasure ships and men-- These worshippers at Freedom's shrine They did not quit her then!
Not till their foes were driven forth By England o'er the main-- Not till the Frenchman from the North Had gone with shattered Spain; Not till the clean-swept oceans showed No hostile flag unrolled, Did they remember what they owed To Freedom--and were bold.
AFTER
The snow lies thick on Valley Forge, The ice on the Delaware, But the poor dead soldiers of King George They neither know nor care.
Nor though the earliest primrose break On the sunny side of the lane, And scuffling rookeries awake Their England's spring again.
They will not stir when the drifts are gone, Or the ice melts out of the bay: And the men that served with Washington Lie as still as they.
They will not stir though the mayflower blows In the moist dark woods of pine, And every rock-strewn pasture shows Mullein and Columbine.
Each for his land, in a fair fight, Encountered, strove, and died, And the kindly earth that knows no spite Covers them side by side.
She is too busy to think of war; She has all the world to make gay; And, behold, the yearly flowers are Where they were in our fathers' day!
Golden-rod by the pasture wall When the columbine is dead, And sumach leaves that turn, in fall, Bright as the blood they shed.
London_Girl
Age: 124
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Down in the Garden Close
My garden walks are bright in the sun; 'T is summer, the birds sing gay; The delicate vines o'er the warm earth run, And the leaves look up to the day. But of all the blossoms on the earth's broad breast, The fairest flower that grows Is the one that stands, the queen of the rest, Down in my garden close.
Down in the garden close You'll find a pure white rose. Its incense rare Fills the dreamy air, Down in the garden close.
Across the paths drift the dry leaves sere. The birds and the summer are fled, My plants are dead with the dying year, The flowers their bloom have shed; And the queen lies low in a soft, still sleep, Safe from the wintry snows, But never again will the sulight creep Down in my garden close.
Down in the garden close The wind with a wild wail goes. Its chilly gust Stirs the soft grave dust, Down in the garden close.
London_Girl
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Written at a Farm
AROUND my porch and lowly casement spread; The myrtle never-sear, and gadding vine, With fragrant sweet-briar love to intertwine; And in my garden's box-encircled bed, The pansy pied, and musk-rose white and red, The pink and tulip, and honeyed woodbine, Fling odors round; the flaunting eglantine Decks my trim fence, 'neath which, by silence led, The wren hath wisely placed her mossy cell; And far from noise, in courtly land so rife, Nestles her young to rest, and warbles well. Here in this safe retreat and peaceful glen I pass my sober moments, far from men; Nor wishing death too soon, nor asking life.
London_Girl
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On Imagination
The various works, imperial queen, we see, How bright their forms! how deck'd with pomp by thee! The wond'rous acts in beauteous order stand, And all attest how potent is thine hand.
From Helicon's refulgent heights attend, Ye sacred choir, and my attempts befriend: To tell her glories with a faithful tongue, Ye blooming graces, triumph in my song.
Now here, now there, the roving Fancy flies, Till some lov'd object strikes her wand'ring eyes, Whose silken fetters all the senses bind, And soft captivity involves the mind.
Imagination! who can sing thy force? Or who describe the swiftness of thy course? Soaring through the air to find the bright abode, Th' empyreal palace of the thund'ring God, We on thy pinions can surpass the wind, And leave the rolling universe behind: From star to star the mental optics rove, Measure the skies, and range the realms above. There in one view we grasp the mighty whole, Or with new worlds amaze th' unbounded soul.
Though Winter frowns to Fancy's raptur'd eyes The fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise; The frozen deeps may bleak their iron bands, And bid their waters murmur o'er the sands. Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign, And with her flow'ry riches deck the plain; Sylvanus may diffuse his honours round, And all the forest may with leaves be crown'd: Show'rs may descend, and dew their gems disclose, And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose.
Such is thy pow'r, nor are thine orders vain, O thou the leaders of the mental train: In full perfection all thy works are wrought And thine the sceptre o'er the realms of thought. Before thy throne the subject-passions bow, Of subject-passions sov'reign ruler Thou, At thy command joy rushes on the heart, And through the glowing veins the spirits dart.
Fancy might now her silken pinions try To rise from earth, and sweep th' expanse on high; From Tithon's bed now might Aurora rise, Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dies, While a pure stream of light o'erflows the skies. The monarch of the day I might behold, And all the mountains tipt with radiant gold, But I reluctant leave the pleasing views, Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse; Winter austere forbids me aspire, And northern tempests damp the rising fire; They chill the tides of Fancy's flowing sea, Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.
London_Girl
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To the Right Honourable William, Earl of Dartmouth
HAIL, happy day, when, smiling like the morn, Fair Freedom rose New-England to adorn: The northern clime beneath her genial ray, Dartmouth, congratulates thy blissful sway: Elate with hope her race no longer mourns, Each soul expands, each grateful bosom burns, While in thine hand with pleasure we behold The silken reins, and Freedom's charms unfold. Long lost to realms beneath the northern skies She shines supreme, while hated faction dies: Soon as appear'd the Goddess long desir'd, Sick at the view, she lanquish'd and expir'd; Thus from the splendors of the morning light The owl in sadness seeks the caves of night.
No more, America, in mournful strain Of wrongs, and grievance unredress'd complain, No longer shalt thou dread the iron chain, Which wanton Tyranny with lawless hand Has made, and with it meant t' enslave the land.
Should you, my lord, while you peruse my song, Wonder from whence my love of Freedom sprung, Whence flow these wishes, for the common good, By feeling hearts alone best understood, I, young in life, by seeming cruel fate Was snatch'd from Afric's fancy'd happy seat: What pangs excruciating must molest, What sorrows labour in my parent's breast? Steel'd was that soul and by no misery mov'd That from a father seiz'd his babe belov'd: Such, such my case. And can I then but pray Others may never feel tyranic sway?
For favours past, great Sir, our thanks are due, And thee we ask thy favours to renew, Since in thy pow'r, as in thy will before, To sooth the griefs, which thou did'st once deplore. May heav'nly grace the sacred sanction give To all thy works, and thou for ever live Not only on the wings of fleeting Fame, Though praise immortal crowns the patriot's name, But to conduct to heav'ns refulgent fane, May fiery coursers sweep th' ethereal plain, And bear thee upwards to that blest abode, Where, like the prophet, thou shalt find thy God.
London_Girl
Age: 124
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To the University of Cambridge, in New-England
WHILE an intrinsic ardor prompts to write, The muses promise to assist my pen; 'Twas not long since I left my native shore, The land of errors, and Egyptian gloom: Father of mercy, 'twas thy gracious hand Brought me in safety from those dark abodes.
Students, to you 'tis giv'n to scan the heights Above, to traverse the ethereal space, And mark the systems of revolving worlds. Still more, ye sons of science, ye receive The blissful news by messengers from heav'n How Jesus' blood for your redemption flows. See him with hands out-stretcht upon the cross; Immense compassion in his bosom glows; He hears revilers, nor resents their scorn: What matchless mercy in the Son of God! When the whole human race by sin had fall'n He deign'd to die that they might rise again, And share with him in the sublimest skies, Life without death, and glory without end.
Improve your privileeges while they stay, Ye pupils, and each hour redeem, that bears Or good or bad report of you to heav'n. Let sin, that baneful evil to the soul, By you be shunn'd, nor once remit your guard; Suppress the deadly serpent in its egg. Ye blooming plants of human race devine, An Ethiop tells you 'tis your greatest foe; Its transient sweetness turns to endless pain, And in immense perdition sinks the soul.
London_Girl
Age: 124
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The Fair Little Maiden
THERE is one at the door, Wolfe O'Driscoll, At the door, who bids you to come! "Who is he that wakes me in the darkness, Calling when all the world is dumb?"
Six horses has he to his carriage, Six horses blacker than the night, And their twelve red eyes in the shadows-- Twelve lamps he carries for his light;
His coach is a hearse black and mouldy, Within a coffin open wide: He asks for you soul, Wolfe O'Driscoll, Who doth call at the door outside.
"Who let him thro' the gates of my gardens, Where stronger bolts have never been?" The father of the fair little maiden You drove to her grave deep and green.
"And who let him pass through the courtyard, Loosening the bar and the chain?" Who but the brother of the maiden Who lies in the cold and the rain?
"Then who drew the bolts at the portal, And into my house bade him go?" The mother of the poor young maiden Who lies in her youth all so low.
"Who stands, that he dare not enter, The door of my chamber, between?" O, the ghost of the fair little maiden Who lies in the churchyard green.
London_Girl
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All-Souls' Night
O MOTHER, mother, I swept the hearth, I set his chair and the white board spread, I prayed for his coming to our kindly Lady when Death's doors would let out the dead; A strange wind rattled the window-pane, and down the lane a dog howled on, I called his name and the candle flame burnt dim, pressed a hand the door-latch upon. Deelish! Deelish! my woe forever that I could not sever coward flesh from fear. I called his name and the pale ghost came; but I was afraid to meet my dear.
O mother, mother, in tears I checked the sad hours past of the year that's o'er, Till by God's grace I might see his face and hear the sound of his voice once more; The chair I set from the cold and wet, he took when he came from unknown skies Of the land of the dead, on my bent brown head I felt the reproach of his saddened eyes; I closed my lids on my heart's desire, crouched by the fire, my voice was dumb. At my clean-swept hearth he had no mirth, and at my table he broke no crumb. Deelish! Deelish! my woe forever that I could not sever coward flesh from fear. His chair put aside when the young cock cried, and I was afraid to meet my dear.
London_Girl
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]
BE those few hours, which I have yet to spend, Blest with the meditation of my end; Though they be few in number, I'm content; If otherwise, I stand indifferent, Nor makes it matter, Nestor's years to tell, If man lives long, and if he live not well. A multitude of days still heaped on Seldom brings order, but confusion. Might I make choice, long life should be with-stood*; [res isted] Nor would I care how short it were, if good; Which to effect, let ev'ry passing bell Possess my thoughts, next comes my doleful knell; And when the night persuades me to my bed, I'll think I'm going to be buried; So shall the blankets which come over me Present* those turfs, which once must cover me; &nb sp;[represent] And with as firm behaviour I will meet The sheet I sleep in, as my winding-sheet. When Sleep shall bathe his body in mine eyes, I will believe, that then my body dies; And if I chance to wake, and rise thereon, I'll have in mind my resurrection, Which must produce* me to that Gen'ral Doom, & nbsp;[lead] To which the peasant, so the prince must come, To hear the Judge give sentence on the Throne, Without the least hope of affection*. & nbsp; [partiality or bias] Tears, at that day, shall make but weak defense, When Hell and horror fright the conscience. Let me, though late, yet at the last, begin To shun the least temptation to a sin; Though to be tempted be no sin, until Man to th'alluring object gives his will. Such let my life assure me, when my breath Goes thieving from me, I am safe in death; Which is the height of comfort, when I fall, I rise triumphant in my funeral.
London_Girl
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To His Sweet Saviour
NIGHT hath no wings, to him that cannot sleep; And Time seems then, not for to fly, but creep; Slowly her chariot drives as if that she Had broke her wheel, or crackt her axletree. Just so it is with me who, list'ning, pray The winds to blow the tedious night away, That I might see the cheerful peeping day. Sick is my heart; O Saviour! do Thou please To make my bed soft in my sicknesses; Lighten my candle, so that I beneath Sleep not for ever in the vaults of death; Let me Thy voice betimes i'th' morning hear; Call, and I'll come; say Thou the when and where; Draw me but first, and after Thee I'll run, And make no one stop, till my race be done.
London_Girl
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A Thanksgiving to God for His House
LORD, Thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell; An little house, whose humble roof Is weather-proof; Under the spars* of which I lie &nb sp;[roofbeams] Both soft and dry; Where Thou my chamber for to ward Hast set a guard Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me, while I sleep. Low is my porch as is my fate, Both void of state*; ; [pomp] And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by'th' poor, Who thither come, and freely get Good words, or meat; Like as my parlour, so my hall And kitchen's small; A little butterie* and therein ; [pantry] A little bin, Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unchipp'd, unflay'd*; &n bsp; [undam aged by vermin] Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar Make me a fire, Close by whose living coal I sit, And glow like it. Lord, I confess too, when I dine, The pulse* is Thine, [bean] And all those other bits that be There plac'd by Thee; The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water-cress, Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent; And my content Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet. 'Tis Thou that crown'st my glitt'ring hearth With guiltless mirth; And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, Spic'd to the brink. Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand That soils my land; And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, Twice ten for one; Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day; Besides my healthful ewes to bear Me twins each year; The while the conduits of my kine* & nbsp;[cattle] Run cream (for wine.) All these, and better Thou dost send Me, to this end, That I should render, for my part, A thankful heart, Which, fir'd with incense, I resign As wholly Thine; But the acceptance, that must be, My Christ, by Thee.
