304
Fleet Street Eclogue
Of sad, gay girls who ply for hire;
I hear the gibbering of the mad;
Sinister workhouse folk I note;
I mark the sable ironclad
In every sound and channel float,
The growl of armies, bound in chains
Of parchment peace that chafes and frets
Their seven-leagued limbs and bristled manes
Of glittering bayonets,
The glowing blast, the fire-shot smoke,
Where guns are forged and armour-plate,
The mammoth hammer's pounding stroke—
The din of our dread iron date;
And always divers undertones
Within the roaring tempest throb—
The chink of gold, the labourer's groans,
The infant's wail, the woman's sob:
Hoarsely they beg of Fate to give
A little lightening of their woe,
A little time to love, to live,
A little time to think and know.
I see where in the East may rise
Some unexpected dreadful dawn—
The gleam of steeled and scowling eyes,
A flash of women's faces wan!
I hear the gibbering of the mad;
Sinister workhouse folk I note;
I mark the sable ironclad
In every sound and channel float,
The growl of armies, bound in chains
Of parchment peace that chafes and frets
Their seven-leagued limbs and bristled manes
Of glittering bayonets,
The glowing blast, the fire-shot smoke,
Where guns are forged and armour-plate,
The mammoth hammer's pounding stroke—
The din of our dread iron date;
And always divers undertones
Within the roaring tempest throb—
The chink of gold, the labourer's groans,
The infant's wail, the woman's sob:
Hoarsely they beg of Fate to give
A little lightening of their woe,
A little time to love, to live,
A little time to think and know.
I see where in the East may rise
Some unexpected dreadful dawn—
The gleam of steeled and scowling eyes,
A flash of women's faces wan!
Basil.
This is St. George's Day.
This is St. George's Day.
Menzies.
St. George? A wretched thief, I vow.
St. George? A wretched thief, I vow.
Herbert.
