London’s Lord Mayor, Dick Whittington,
In heaven heard the carillon
“Turn again;” London after all
Is paved with gold by Chiswick Mall.
But afterwards the town was sold
To a mad alchemist for gold,
Who used his art to change, instead
Of lead to gold, the gold to lead.
If where the streets to Hampstead twist
You meet a doting alchemist
Seeking lost gold, refuse him pity;
He changed us when he changed the city!
ORPHEUS.
WHAT Orpheus whistled for Eurydice
(While all the shades were silent, achingly
Holding out hands, and hands stretched evermore
In a vain longing for the further shore).
The blue smoke floats
Lazily in the dawn above the white
Flat roof you knew, and somewhere out of sight
A child is singing the old Linus song,
Sweeter because the baby voice goes wrong
—The little goatherd calling to her goats.
There’s a small hill
On which the olive trees you used to call
Athene’s little sisters, now grown tall,
Watch all day long the coming of the child,
And you’ll remember how the brook, else wild,
About these pastures suddenly grows still.
There’s such a peace,
Save where a wandering beast shakes on its bell,
You’d almost think the trees had learned a spell
From their wise sister (or from you) to bless
A baby frightened of the loneliness,
Tending her herd and waiting by the trees.
Ah! certainly
There are two things are stronger than the fates—
A lover’s song in Hell, a child that waits.
The shadows lengthen. Ere the night descend
On earth, O sweetheart, Mother, friend
Win out of Hell! Return Eurydice!