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| I DEARLY love this London, this royal northern London, | |
| And am up in all its history, to Brutus and to Lud; | |
| But I wish that certain Puritan simplicities were undone, | |
| That the houses had more gable-ends, and the river less of mud. | |
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| And often, as I wander in the fine new squares, I ponder | 5 |
| The reason why men like to live in long white plastered rows, | |
| And sigh for our old streets, like those across the Channel yonder, | |
| At Bruges or at Antwerp, such as everybody knows. | |
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| But our river still is beautiful, rejoicing in the quaintest | |
| Old corners for a painter (till the new quays are begun). | 10 |
| See there the line of distant hills, and where the blue is faintest, | |
| The brown sails of the barges lie slanting in the sun. | |
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| Here ’s a steamer—now we ’re in it—one is passing every minute; | |
| There ’s the palace of St. Stephen, which they call “a dream in stone”; | |
| But I think, beyond all question, it was in an indigestion | 15 |
| That the architect devised those scrolls whose language is unknown. | |
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| Now we pass the Lollards’ Tower, as we glide upon our journey, | |
| And think of Wicliffe’s ashes scattered wide across the sea; | |
| Pass the site of ancient Ranelagh, which (vide Fanny Burney) | |
| Brings up the tales we read at school to Laurence and to me. | 20 |
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| At last we get to Putney, and we rush across the river, | |
| The gentle rural river, flowing softly through the grass; | |
| And we walk more fast than ever, for our nerves are in a quiver, | |
| Till we mount the hill of Wimbledon, and see the shadows pass | |
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| Athwart the budding chestnuts, and clear brown water lying, | 25 |
| Filled with the click of insects, among the yellowing gorse; | |
| Here there is no human creature, and the only living feature | |
| Of all this glorious common is that idle old white horse. * * * * * | |
| The sun is sinking in the west, let ’s leave the wood behind us, | |
| Across the road, and up the steps, see here is Richmond Park; | 30 |
| Let ’s plunge amid the ferny glades, where only deer can find us,— | |
| It wants an hour to sunset yet, and two before it ’s dark. * * * * * | |
| There, now we ’re on the terrace; see, this regal Thames is winding | |
| Among its poplared islands with a slow majestic pace; | |
| We should see the towers of Windsor if the sun were not so blinding, | 35 |
| It casts a glow on all the trees, and a glory on your face. | |
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| Golden is the landscape, and the river, and the people, | |
| The cedar-stems are molten now the sun is going down; | |
| Let ’s keep the vision as it is; the clock in yonder steeple | |
| Reminds us it is getting late, and we ’re miles away from town. * * * * * | 40 |
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