« AnteriorContinuar »
Cast up, from myriads of lamps that shine
RETURN TO LONDON.
ROM the dull confines of the drooping west,
To see the day spring from the pregnant east, Ravishit in spirit, I come, nay more, I flie To thee, blest place of my nativitie ! Thus, thus with hallowed foot I touch the ground, With thousand blessings by thy fortune crown'd. O fruitful genius! that bestowest here An everlasting plenty, yeere by yeere. O place! O people! manners ! fram’d to please All nations, customes, kindreds, languages ! I am a free-born Roman; suffer then, That I amongst you live a citizen. London my home is; though by hard fate sent
Into a long and irksome banishment,
Rank abundance breeds, In gross and pampered cities, sloth and lust And wantonness and gluttonous excess. In cities vice is hidden with most ease, Or seen with least reproach ; and virtue, taught By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there Beyond the achievements of successful flight. I do confess them nurseries of the arts, In which they flourish most; where, in the beams Of warm encouragement, and in the eye Of public note, they reach their perfect size.
Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaimed The fairest capital of all the world, By riot and incontinence the worst. There, touched by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees All her reflected features. Bacon there Gives more than female beauty to a stone, And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips. Nor does the chisel occupy alone
The powers of sculpture, but the style as much,
With nice incision of her guided steel
Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, And the pale weaver, through his windows seen In Spitalfields, looked thrice dispirited; I met a preacher there I knew, and said, “ Ill and o’erworked, how fare you in this scene?” “Bravely !” said he; “for I of late have been Much cheered with thoughts of Christ, the living bread.”
O human soul! as long as thou canst so
To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam,
YROUCHED on the pavement close by Belgrave
Square, A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied; A babe was in her arms, and at her side A girl; their clothes were rags, their feet were bare.
Some laboring men, whose work lay somewhere there,
Thought I: Above her state this spirit towers;
She turns from that cold succor which attends
Matthew Arnold. SIR RICHARD WHITTINGTON'S ADVANCEMENT.
“THERE is something so fabulous,” says the editor of Old Ballads, following Grafton and Stow, “or at least, that has such a romantic appearance, in the history of Whittington, that I shall not choose to relate it, but refer my credulous readers to common tradition, or to the penny histories. Certain it is there was such a man; a citizen of London, by trade a mercer, and one who has left public edifices and charitable works enow behind him to transmit his name to posterity.”
TERE must I tell the praise
Of worthy Whittington,
Thrice Maior of London.
Borne was he, as we heare,
Bred up in Lancashire.
Came up this simple lad,
Soone he a dwelling had;
A scullion for to be,
In labour drudgingly.
Turning spitts at the fire;
For a poore scullions hire.
Of coyne he had no store;