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THERE was a time when whatsoe’er is feigned | |
| Of airy palaces, and gardens built | |
| By Genii of romance; or hath in grave | |
| Authentic history been set forth of Rome, | |
| Alcairo, Babylon, or Persepolis; | 5 |
| Or given upon report by pilgrim friars, | |
| Of golden cities ten months’ journey deep | |
| Among Tartarian wilds,—fell short, far short, | |
| Of what my fond simplicity believed | |
| And thought of London,—held me by a chain | 10 |
| Less strong of wonder and obscure delight. | |
| Whether the bolt of childhood’s fancy shot | |
| For me beyond its ordinary mark, | |
| ’T were vain to ask; but in our flock of boys | |
| Was one, a cripple from his birth, whom chance | 15 |
| Summoned from school to London: fortunate | |
| And envied traveller! When the boy returned, | |
| After short absence, curiously I scanned | |
| His mien and person, nor was free, in sooth, | |
| From disappointment, not to find some change | 20 |
| In look and air, from that new region brought, | |
| As if from Fairy-land. Much I questioned him; | |
| And every word he uttered on my ears | |
| Fell flatter than a cagéd parrot’s note, | |
| That answers unexpectedly awry, | 25 |
| And mocks the prompter’s listening. Marvellous things | |
| Had vanity (quick spirit that appears | |
| Almost as deeply seated and as strong | |
| In a child’s heart as fear itself) conceived | |
| For my enjoyment. Would that I could now | 30 |
| Recall what then I pictured to myself | |
| Of mitred prelates, lords in ermine clad, | |
| The King and the King’s palace, and, not last, | |
| Nor least, Heaven bless him! the renowned Lord Mayor: | |
| Dreams not unlike to those which once begat | 35 |
| A change of purpose in young Whittington, | |
| When he, a friendless and a drooping boy, | |
| Sat on a stone, and heard the bells speak out | |
| Articulate music. Above all, one thought | |
| Baffled my understanding: how men lived | 40 |
| Even next-door neighbors, as we say, yet still | |
| Strangers, not knowing each the other’s name. | |
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| O wondrous power of words, by simple faith | |
| Licensed to take the meaning that we love! | |
| Vauxhall and Ranelagh! I then had heard | 45 |
| Of your green groves, and wilderness of lamps | |
| Dimming the stars, and fireworks magical, | |
| And gorgeous ladies, under splendid domes, | |
| Floating in dance, or warbling high in air | |
| The songs of spirits! Nor had Fancy fed | 50 |
| With less delight upon that other class | |
| Of marvels, broad-day wonders permanent: | |
| The river proudly bridged; the dizzy top | |
| And Whispering Gallery of St. Paul’s; the tombs | |
| Of Westminster; the giants of Guildhall; | 55 |
| Bedlam, and those carved maniacs at the gates, | |
| Perpetually recumbent; statues—man, | |
| And the horse under him—in gilded pomp | |
| Adorning flowery gardens, mid vast squares; | |
| The Monument, and that Chamber of the Tower | 60 |
| Where England’s sovereigns sit in long array, | |
| Their steeds bestriding,—every mimic shape | |
| Cased in the gleaming mail the monarch wore, | |
| Whether for gorgeous tournament addressed, | |
| Or life or death upon the battle-field. | 65 |
| Those bold imaginations in due time | |
| Had vanished, leaving others in their stead: | |
| And now I looked upon the living scene; | |
| Familiarly perused it; oftentimes, | |
| In spite of strongest disappointment, pleased | 70 |
| Through courteous self-submission, as a tax | |
| Paid to the object by prescriptive right. | |
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| Ries, up thou monstrous ant-hill on the plain | |
| Of a too busy world! Before me flow, | |
| Thou endless stream of men and moving things! | 75 |
| Thy every-day appearance, as it strikes— | |
| With wonder heightened, or sublimed by awe— | |
| On strangers of all ages; the quick dance | |
| Of colors, lights, and forms; the deafening din; | |
| The comers and the goers face to face, | 80 |
| Face after face; the string of dazzling wares, | |
| Shop after shop, with symbols, blazoned names, | |
| And all the tradesman’s honors overhead: | |
| Here fronts of houses, like a title-page, | |
| With letters huge inscribed from top to toe, | 85 |
| Stationed above the door, like guardian saints; | |
| There, allegoric shapes, female or male, | |
| Or physiognomies of real men, | |
| Land-warriors, kings, or admirals of the sea, | |
| Boyle, Shakespeare, Newton, or the attractive head | 90 |
| Of some quack-doctor, famous in his day. | |
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| Meanwhile the roar continues, till at length, | |
| Escaped as from an enemy, we turn | |
| Abruptly into some sequestered nook, | |
| Still as a sheltered place when winds blow loud! | 95 |
| At leisure, thence, through tracts of thin resort, | |
| And sights and sounds that come at intervals, | |
| We take our way. A raree-show is here, | |
| With children gathered round; another street | |
| Presents a company of dancing dogs, | 100 |
| Or dromedary, with an antic pair | |
| Of monkeys on his back; a minstrel band | |
| Of Savoyards; or, single and alone, | |
| An English ballad-singer. Private courts, | |
| Gloomy as coffins, and unsightly lanes | 105 |
| Thrilled by some female vender’s scream, belike | |
| The very shrillest of all London cries, | |
| May then entangle our impatient steps; | |
| Conducted through those labyrinths, unawares, | |
| To privileged regions and inviolate, | 110 |
| Where from their airy lodges studious lawyers | |
| Look out on waters, walks, and gardens green. | |
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| Thence back into the throng, until we reach, | |
| Following the tide that slackens by degrees, | |
| Some half-frequented scene, where wider streets | 115 |
| Bring straggling breezes of suburban air. | |
| Here files of ballads dangle from dead walls; | |
| Advertisements, of giant size, from high | |
| Press forward, in all colors, on the sight; | |
| These, bold in conscious merit, lower down; | 120 |
| That, fronted with a most imposing word, | |
| Is, peradventure, one in masquerade. | |
| As on the broadening causeway we advance, | |
| Behold, turned upwards, a face hard and strong | |
| In lineaments, and red with over-toil. | 125 |
| ’T is one encountered here and everywhere; | |
| A travelling cripple, by the trunk cut short, | |
| And stumping on his arms. In sailor’s garb | |
| Another lies at length, beside a range | |
| Of well-formed characters, with chalk inscribed | 130 |
| Upon the smooth flat stones: the nurse is here, | |
| The bachelor, that loves to sun himself, | |
| The military idler, and the dame, | |
| That field-ward takes her walk with decent steps. | |
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| Now homeward through the thickening hubbub, where | 135 |
| See, among less distinguishable shapes, | |
| The begging scavenger, with hat in hand; | |
| The Italian, as he thrids his way with care, | |
| Steadying, far-seen, a frame of images | |
| Upon his head; with basket at his breast, | 140 |
| The Jew; the stately and slow-moving Turk, | |
| With freight of slippers piled beneath his arm! | |
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| Enough;—the mighty concourse I surveyed | |
| With no unthinking mind, well pleased to note | |
| Among the crowd all specimens of man, | 145 |
| Through all the colors which the sun bestows, | |
| And every character of form and face: | |
| The Swede, the Russian; from the genial South, | |
| The Frenchman and the Spaniard; from remote | |
| America the hunter-Indian; Moors, | 150 |
| Malays, Lascars, the Tartar, the Chinese, | |
| And negro ladies in white muslin gowns. | |
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