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And though it be long since daisies grew
Where Irk and Irwell flow,
And angels come and go,
Bessie Rayner Parkes.
Liverpool, the good old town, we miss
The grand old relics of a reverend past, Cathedrals, shrines that pilgrims come to kiss,
Walls wrinkled by the blast. Some crypt or keep, historically dear,
You find, go where you will, all England through: But what have we to venerate, - all here
We have our Castle Street, but castle none;
Redcross Street, but its legend who can learn ; Oldhall Street, too, we have, the old hall gone;
Tithebarn Street, but no barn.
Huge warehouses for cotton, rice, and corn,
Tea and tobacco, log and other woods,
Yea, all things known as goods,
These we can show, but nothing to restore
The spirit of old times, save here and there
An ancient mansion with palatial door,
In some degenerate square.
Then rise the merchant princes of old days,
Their silken dames, their skippers from the strand, Who brought their sea-borne riches, not always
Quite free from contraband.
And these their mansions, to base uses come,
Harbors for fallen fair ones, drifting tars; Some manufactories of blacking, some
Tobacco and cigars.
We have a church that one almost reveres,
St. Nicholas, nodding by the river-side, In old times hailed by ancient mariners
That came up with the tide.
And there's St. Peter's, too, not quite so frail,
Yet old enough for antiquated thoughts : Ah, many a time I lean against the rail
To hear its sweet cracked notes.
For when the sun has clomb the middle sky,
And wandered down the short hour after noon, Then to the heedless world that hurries by
The clock bells clink a tune.
They give us "Home, Sweet Home” in plaintive key,
And in its turn breaks out “The Scolding Wife,” To show that home, however sweet it be,
Is yet not free from strife
But sometimes “Auld Lang Syne” comes clinking forth,
And surely every listening heart is charmed; For what are even the sorrows of the earth
When, past, they are transformed ?
Yet all is so ridiculously new,
Except, perhaps, the river and the sky, The waters and the immemorial blue
Forever sailing by.
Ay, they are old, but new as well as old,
For old and new are just the same sky dream,
YTRANGER! that with careless feet
Wanderest near this green retreat,
Know, where now thy footsteps pass
If her urn, unknown to fame,
Grateful for the tribute paid,
Stranger, curious, wouldst thou learn
Ere yon neighboring spires arose,
Once the maid, in summer's heat,
Forgetful of her daily toil,
Enfeebled by the scorching ray,
And when she oped her languid eye,
Heedless stranger! who so long
URE fount, that, welling from the wooded hill,
Thou to the traveller dost tell no tale
Time was when other sounds and songs arose:
Stranger, mark the spot; No echoes of the chiding world intrude. The structure rose and vanished; solitude