XXIII
Into the city on the Thames they walked,
And to the inn, where he had rented rooms,
An hospitable inn, by no means small,
Of quaint designs, o’ershadowed by some tall,
Outspreading elm trees, in whose pleasant glooms
The thievish rooks to one another talked.
And there were gardens in its rear, where fruit
Of cherries and of pears were sweetly ripe,
For London still had nature in its heart,
Long since ejected by a soul-less mart;
Though knowing statesmen may its grandeur pipe,
Another Shakespeare it makes ever mute.
Here did Sordino hope to respite find
From journeys which accounted seemed but vain;
He would his simple country-lad engage
In spying bells, and in the work of page,
For such a boy he easily could train:
He had an honest heart and ready mind.
This tavern was, however, seldom quiet,
But oft for merry souls a rendezvous,—
For wits and poets, chiefly for the latter,
To whom the outside of the social platter
Was less important than the inside true,
Whose highest law was their own spirit’s fiat.
When God makes poets He’s misunderstood,
The mixture is too much for common folk;
The blending of all things in earth and heaven,
Of light and darkness, unto them is given,
An angel and a fiend in common yoke,
The great extremes of evil and of good.
As in time’s morn the light from darkness sprang,
And cosmic beauty out of Chaos rose,
Thus out of reeking stews and taverns came
A Marlow’s strong, illuminating flame,
And stars of magnitudes did follow close,—
The morning stars which rapt together sang.