XXIV
The sights of London were but meagre then,
Compared with all its wonders of to-day;—
Still each age thinks his own the grandest, best,
A truth, may be, why else the ceaseless quest?
Though it is left to Wisdom yet to say,
If things are worse or better among men.
The Tow’r knew greater anguish in those days,
The bridge gave terror with its ghastliness
Of hoary heads uplifted high on spits;
The palaces had dungeons, vermin-pits
Of heartless cruelties and grim distress;
And halls of splendor had dark, hidden ways.
But there was sunlight on the crimson tile,
And there was blueness in the open sky,
And breezes bore the scent of rose and thyme,
As in the morn they met St. Mary’s chime,
No cloud of smoke, as now, oppressed the eye,
And made the gentle breath of heaven vile.
And men were frank and honest with their friends,
And also frank and honest with their foes,
And either loved with nakedness of soul,
Or fought until one of the two did fall,
Strong was the love, and hard the hater’s blows,
While now his love and hate man subtly blends.
Sordino loitered much in lane and street,
And listened well to every swinging bell,
And searched the city for his treasure lost,
But not a sound was from a steeple tost,
Of its abiding-place his ear to tell,
Nor did a single clue his vision meet.
He daily searched, until the winter fog
Began to close about the sightly town,
Then melancholy claimed him for her own,
And lest he should be lost in grief and groan,
He sought the company of those who drown
The sorrows of their hearts with ale and grog.