300
Fleet Street Eclogue
Herbert.
Oh! but the old stile stands,
For ever dear to me—
Foot-worn, its bars by many hands
Polished like ebony!
Oh! but the old stile stands,
For ever dear to me—
Foot-worn, its bars by many hands
Polished like ebony!
Menzies.
But me my city spleen
Holds in a fretting bond.
But me my city spleen
Holds in a fretting bond.
Herbert.
And the quickset hedges mantle green,
And the fields roll green beyond;
While the antique footpath winds about
By farms and little towns,
By waterways, and in and out,
And up and over the downs.
And the quickset hedges mantle green,
And the fields roll green beyond;
While the antique footpath winds about
By farms and little towns,
By waterways, and in and out,
And up and over the downs.
Menzies.
I hear the idle workmen's sighs;
I hear their children's hungry cries;
I hear the burden of the years;
I hear the drip of women's tears;
I hear despair, whose tongue is dumb,
Speak thunder in the ruthless bomb.
I hear the idle workmen's sighs;
I hear their children's hungry cries;
I hear the burden of the years;
I hear the drip of women's tears;
I hear despair, whose tongue is dumb,
Speak thunder in the ruthless bomb.
Sandy.
But why keep brooding over ill?
Why hearken such discordant tones?
But why keep brooding over ill?
Why hearken such discordant tones?
Herbert.
