I.

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;[J] Or mark, with mitred Nevile,[K] 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,[L] (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.