PART THE SECOND.

London, I take thee to a Poet's heart!

For those who seek, a Helicon thou art.

Let schoolboy Strephons bleat of flocks and fields,

Each street of thine a loftier Idyl yields;

Fed by all life, and fann'd by every wind,

There burns the quenchless Poetry — Mankind!

Yet not for me the Olympiad of the gay,

The reeking SEASON'S dusty holiday:—

Soon as its summer pomp the mead assumes,

And Flora wanders through her world of blooms,

Vain the hot field-days of the vex'd debate,

When Sirius reigns,— let Tapeworm rule the state!

Vain Devon's cards, and Lansdowne's social feast,

Wit but fatigues, and Beauty's reign hath ceased.

His mission done, the monk regains his cell;

Nor even Douro's matchless face can spell.

Far from Man's works, escaped to God's, I fly,

And breathe the luxury of a smokeless sky.

Me, the still “LONDON,” not the restless “TOWN”

( The light plume fluttering o'er the helmed crown ),

Delights;— for there the grave Romance hath shed

Its hues; and air grows solemn with the Dead.

If, where the Lord of Rivers parts the throng,

And eastward glides by buried halls along,

My steps are led, I linger, and restore

To the changed wave the poet-shapes of yore;

See the gilt barge, and hear the fated king

Prompt the first mavis of our Minstrel spring;

Or mark, with mitred Nevile, the array }

Of arms and craft alarm “the Silent way,” }

The Boar of Gloucester, hungering, scents his prey! }

Or, landward, trace where thieves their festive hall

Hold by the dens of Law, ( worst thief of all! )

The antique Temple of the armed Zeal

That wore the cross a mantle to the steel;

Time's dreary void the kindling dream supplies,

The walls expand, the shadowy towers arise,

And forth, as when by Richard's lion side,

For Christ and Fame, the Warrior-Phantoms ride!

Or if, less grave with thought, less rich with lore,

The later scenes, the lighter steps explore,

If through the haunts of living splendour led —

Has the quick Muse no empire but the Dead?

In each keen face, by Care or Pleasure worn,

Grief claims her sigh, or Vice invites her scorn;

And every human brow that veils a thought

Conceals the Castaly which Shakespeare sought.