But—prose was never made for such things. I must be Pindaric.
London Bridge.
"My native land, good-night!"
Adieu, adieu, thou huge, high bridge
A long and glad adieu!
I see above thy stony ridge
A most ill-favour'd crew.
The earth displays no dingier sight;
I bid the whole—Good-night, good-night!
There, hang between me and the sky
She who doth oysters sell,
The youth who parboil'd shrimps doth cry,
The shoeless beau and belle,
Blue-apron'd butchers, bakers white,
Creation's lords!—Good-night, good-night!
Some climb along the slippery wall,
Through balustrades some stare,
One wonders what has perch'd them all
Five hundred feet in air.
The Thames below flows, ready quite
To break their fall.—Good-night, good-night!
What visions fill my parting eyes!
St Magnus, thy grim tower,
Almost as black as London skies!
The Shades, which are no bower;
St Olave's, on its new-built site,
In flaming brick.—Good-night, good-night!
The rope's thrown off, the paddles move,
We leave the bridge behind;
Beat tide below, and cloud above;—
Asylums for the blind,
Schools, storehouses, fly left and right;
Docks, locks, and blocks—Good-night, good-night!
In distance fifty steeples dance.
St Catherine's dashes by,
The Customhouse scarce gets a glance,
The sounds of Bowbell die.
With charger's speed, or arrow's flight,
We steam along.—Good-night, good-night!
The Tower seems whirling in a waltz,
As on we rush and roar.
Where impious man makes Cheltenham salts,
We shave the sullen shore;
Putting the wherries all in fright,
Swamping a few.—Good-night, good-night!
We brave the perils of the Pool;
Pass colliers chain'd in rows;
See coalheavers, as black and cool
As negroes without clothes,
Each bouncing, like an opera sprite,
Stript to the skin.—Good-night, good-night!