Fleet Street! Fleet Street! Fleet Street in the noontide, East and west the streets packed close, and roaring like the sea; With laughter and with sobbing we feel the world's heart throbbing, And know that what is throbbing is the heart of you and me. Fleet Street! Fleet Street! Fleet Street in the evening, Darkness set with golden lamps down Ludgate Hill a-row: Oh! hark the voice o' th' city that breaks our hearts with pity, That crazes us with shame and wrath, and makes us love her so. Fleet Street! Fleet Street! morning, noon, and starlight, Through the never-ceasing roar come the great chimes clear and slow; "Good are life and laughter, though we look before and after, And good to love the race of men a little ere we go." Alice Werner [1859 SONG CLOSES and courts and lanes, The thoroughfare, mains and drains, Pen and composing stick: Fleet Street, but exquisite flame In the nebula once ere day and night Networks of wire overland, Conduits under the sea, Aerial message from strand to strand By lightning that travels free, Tidings of destiny, These tingling nerves of the world's affairs Deliver remorseless, rendering still The fall of empires, the price of shares, Tidal the traffic goes Citywards out of the town; This is the royal refrain That burdens the boom and the thud Of omnibus, mobus, wain, And the hoofs on the beaten mud, From the Griffin at Chancery Lane To the portal of old King Lud— Fleet Street, diligent night and day, Of news of the mart and the burnished hearth, Seven hundred paces of narrow way, A notable bit of the earth. John Davidson [1857-1909] ST. JAMES'S STREET ST. JAMES'S STREET, of classic fame, Where Byron lived, and Gibbon died, A famous Street! To yonder Park The plats at White's, the play at Crock's, The bonhomie of Charley Fox, And Selwyn's ghastly funning. The dear old Street of clubs and cribs, The quaint old dress, the grand old style, The wine, the dice, the wit, the bile- At dusk, when I am strolling there, And Congreve's airs astound me! I shook my head, perhaps, but quite The Street is still a lively tomb For rich, and gay, and clever; The crops of dandies bud and bloom, Now gilded youth loves cutty pipes, In Brummell's day of buckle shoes, They'd fight, and woo, and bet-and lose, I'm glad young men should go the pace, These louts disgrace their name and race- Worse times may come. Bon ton, indeed, And all we much revere will speed From ripe to worse than rotten: Let grass then sprout between yon stones, I love the haunts of old Cockaigne, For this old Street before me. Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895] A MARLOW MADRIGAL OH, Bisham Banks are fresh and fair, I love the music of the weir, As swift the stream runs down, For oh, the water's deep and clear That flows by Marlow town! When London's getting hot and dry, There pleasant quarters you may find,- I paddle up to Harleyford, And sometimes I incline To cushions take with lunch aboard, I go to luncheon at the Lawn, So when no longer London life You feel you can endure, Just quit its noise, its whirl, its strife, And try the "Marlow cure." You'll smooth the wrinkles on your brow, And scare away each frown, Feel young again once more, I vow, At quaint old Marlow town. Here Shelley dreamed and thought and wrote, And wandered o'er the leas; And sung and drifted in his boat Beneath the Bisham trees. So let me sing, although I'm no Great poet of renown, Of hours that much too quickly go At good old Marlow town! Joseph Ashby-Sterry [18 |