LONDON CRIES.
BY B. SIMMONS.
I.
What trifles mere are more than treasure,
To curious, eager-hearted boys!
I yet can single out the pleasure,
From memory's store of childish joys,
That thrill'd me when some gracious guest
First spread before my dazzled eyes,
In covers, crimson as the West,
A glorious book of London Cries.
II.
For days that gift was not resign'd,
As stumbling on I spelt and read;
It shared my cushion while I dined,—
I took it up at night to bed;
At noon I conn'd it half-awake,
Nor thought, while poring o'er the prize,
How oft my head and heart should ache
In listening yet to London Cries.
III.
Imprinted was the precious book
By great John Harris, of St Paul's,
(The Aldus of the nursery-nook;)
I still revere the shop's gray walls,
Whose wealth of story-books had power
To wake my longing boyhood's sighs:—
But Fairy-land lost every flower
Beneath your tempests-London Cries!
IV.
I learn'd by rote each bawling word—
And with a rapture turn'd the broad,
Great staring woodcuts, dark and blurr'd,
I never since derived from Claude.
—That Cherry-seller's balanced scale,
Poised nicely o'er his wares' rich dyes,
Gave useful hints, of slight avail,
To riper years 'mid London Cries.