Kimmeridge in Dorset, Kimmeridge in Dorset,
Though I may not see you more thro' all the years to be,
Yet will I remember the little happy homestead
Hidden in that Paradise where God was good to me.
* * * *
So they turned to London, and with mind and soul he laboured,
Flos Mercatorum, for the mighty years to be,
Fashioning, for profit—to the years that should forget him!—
This, our sacred City that must shine upon the sea.
London was a City when the Poulters ruled the Poultry!
Rosaries of prayer were hung in Paternoster Row,
Gutter Lane was Guthrun's, then; and, bright with painted missal-books,
Ave Mary Corner, sirs, was fairer than ye know.
London was mighty when her marchaunts loved their merchandise,
Bales of Eastern magic that empurpled wharf and quay:
London was mighty when her booths were a dream-market,
Loaded with the colours of the sunset and the sea.
There, in all their glory, with the Virgin on their bannerols,
Glory out of Genoa, the Mercers might be seen,
Walking to their Company of Marchaunt Adventurers;—
Gallantly they jetted it in scarlet and in green.
There, in all the glory of the lordly Linen Armourers,
Walked the Marchaunt Taylors with the Pilgrim of their trade,
Fresh from adventuring in Italy and Flanders,
Flos Mercatorum, for a green-gowned maid.
Flos Mercatorum! Can a good thing come of Nazareth?
High above the darkness, where our duller senses drown,
Lifts the splendid Vision of a City, built on merchandise,
Fairer than that City of Light that wore the violet crown,
Lifts the sacred vision of a far-resplendent City,
Flashing, like the heart of heaven, its messages afar,
Trafficking, as God Himself through all His interchanging worlds,
Holding up the scales of law, weighing star by star,
Stern as Justice, in one hand the sword of Truth and Righteousness;
Blind as Justice, in one hand the everlasting scales,
Lifts the sacred Vision of that City from the darkness,
Whence the thoughts of men break out, like blossoms, or like sails!