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,
Devious, clustered thick,
The thoroughfare, mains and drains,
People and mortar and brick,
Wood, metal, machinery, brains,

Pen and composing stick:

Fleet Street, but exquisite flame

In the nebula once ere day and night
Began their travail, or earth became,
And all was passionate light.

Networks of wire overland,

Conduits under the sea,

Aerial message from strand to strand

By lightning that travels free,
Hither in haste to hand

Tidings of destiny,

These tingling nerves of the world's affairs

Deliver remorseless, rendering still

The fall of empires, the price of shares,
The record of good and ill.

Tidal the traffic goes

Citywards out of the town;
Townwards the evening ebb o'erflows
This highway of old renown,
When the fog-woven curtains close,
And the urban night comes down,
Where souls are spilt and intellects spent
O'er news vociferant near and far,
From Hesperus hard to the Orient,
From dawn to the evening star.

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,
For Fashion still is seen there:
St. James's Street? I know the name,
I almost think I've been there!
Why, that's where Sacharissa sighed
When Waller read his ditty;
Where Byron lived, and Gibbon died,
And Alvanley was witty.

A famous Street! To yonder Park
Young Churchill stole in class-time;
Come, gaze on fifty men of mark,
And then recall the past time.

The plats at White's, the play at Crock's,
The bumpers to Miss Gunning;

The bonhomie of Charley Fox,

And Selwyn's ghastly funning.

The dear old Street of clubs and cribs,
As north and south it stretches,
Still seems to smack of Rolliad squibs,
And Gillray's fiercer sketches;

The quaint old dress, the grand old style,
The mots, the racy stories;

The wine, the dice, the wit, the bile—
The hate of Whigs and Tories.

At dusk, when I am strolling there,
Dim forms will rise around me;
Lepel flits past me in her chair,

And Congreve's airs astound me!

And once Nell Gwynne, a frail young Sprite,
Looked kindly when I met her;

I shook my head, perhaps, but quite
Forgot to quite forget her.

The Street is still a lively tomb

For rich, and gay,

and clever;

The crops of dandies bud and bloom,

And die as fast as ever.

Now gilded youth loves cutty pipes,
And slang that's rather scaring;

It can't approach its prototypes
In taste, or tone, or bearing.

In Brummell's day of buckle shoes,
Lawn cravats, and roll collars,

They'd fight, and woo, and bet—and lose,
Like gentlemen and scholars:

I'm glad young men should go the pace,
I half forgive Old Rapid!

These louts disgrace their name and race-
So vicious and so vapid!

Worse times may come. Bon ton, indeed,
Will then be quite forgotten,

And all we much revere will speed

From ripe to worse than rotten:

Let grass then sprout between yon stones,
And owls then roost at Boodle's,
For Echo will hurl back the tones
Of screaming Yankee Doodles.

I love the haunts of old Cockaigne,
Where wit and wealth were squandered;

The halls that tell of hoop and train,
Where grace and rank have wandered;
Those halls where ladies fair and leal
First ventured to adore me!
Something of that old love I feel

For this old Street before me.

Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]

A MARLOW MADRIGAL

OH, Bisham Banks are fresh and fair,
And Quarry Woods are green,
And pure and sparkling is the air,
Enchanting is the scene!

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,
And half the season's done,

To Marlow you should quickly fly,
And bask there in the sun.

There pleasant quarters you may find,-
The "Angler" or the "Crown"
Will suit you well, if you're inclined
To stay in Marlow town.

I paddle up to Harleyford,

And sometimes I incline

To cushions take with lunch aboard,

And play with rod and line;
For in a punt I love to laze,
And let my face get brown;
And dream away the sunny days
By dear old Marlow town.

I go to luncheon at the Lawn,
I muse, I sketch, I rhyme;
I headers take at early dawn,
I list to All Saints' chime.
And in the river, flashing bright,
Dull care I strive to drown,—
And get a famous appetite
At pleasant Marlow town.

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!