Part 7 (1/2)

Shadows, the pale grey wings of night, Sweep over the sky, And low in the west the lingering light Wanes--like a sigh From the fervent heart of the day Pa.s.sing away: Then afar s.h.i.+neth a star.

Shadows, the pale grey wings of Death, Sweep over my heart; And far in the dark a voice calleth, ”Come ye, depart.”

There lingers no light from the day Pa.s.sing away, But afar s.h.i.+neth a Star!

WHEN I WAS A LAD

When I was a lad in Petherick I often lay me down And built a beautiful city And called it London Town.

I filled its streets with heroes Beautiful strong and wise, Men who were kings and princes, Women with kindly eyes.

I spent the gold of the charlock For paving the city street; I saw bright flags awaving Over the billowing wheat; And loud in the brown bee's buzzing I heard the far-off hum Of the mart and the busy merchants, And the wharves where the big s.h.i.+ps come.

When I was a lad in Petherick I often lay me down, And built this wonderful city, And called it London Town.

Now I'm a man in London-- Golden dreams I had Of a golden city of London Long since when I was a lad.

Here on the long grey pavement I seek that city still But there isn't much gold in Fleet Street, Or glamour on Ludgate Hill.

For the hurrying men look haggard, And the women have weary eyes, And the voices of pale-faced children Mingle in fretful cries.

There's gold in the field of charlock, There's gold on the billowing wheat, And the bee sucks golden honey In lanes where the flowers are sweet.

And small s.h.i.+ps sail in the distance To a golden bourne in the west, And the gentle peace of twilight Is the purest gold of rest.

Dreams of the man in London!

Useless dreams and sad, Of the far-off village of Petherick And the far-off Cornish lad.

A CALL

Let us go out to the Garden of Pan, and hear what the Pipes are playing; Let us go out where the ancient hills mother the rivers that run to the sea; Let us go out where the wind wanders, tuning amid the trees swaying, Let us go out to the wider world where the thoughts of men are free.

There on the hills the eye may see the changeless Beauty changing On sun-splashed gra.s.s and wavering corn, verdant valley and rolling down, Clouds steal up from a far-off tryst, like t.i.tans into battalions ranging, And the splendid Sun-G.o.d marching on to crown the world with a golden crown.

Here in the City the voices are hoa.r.s.e. Here is calling and crying, l.u.s.t and longing for pride of place, vanity, pomp, and the strain of strife; Here in the City sobs arise from the battered hosts of the falling and dying, Who know not Peace, nor the End of Peace; who know not Life, nor the End of Life.

Let us away from the webbed town-tangle, where monstrous Mammon is reigning Over the small cheap souls of slaves, sudden to cringe and swift to serve; Let us go out from the clanging Gates, the squalour of strife and the sordid straining, Let us go out by the open road with feet that falter not nor swerve.

Come! and away to the Garden of Pan, and hear what the Pipes are playing!

Hark to the Voice of a splendid Peace calling from hill and river and sea!