scenes in london i - piccadilly - letitia elizabeth landon - richard mitchley lyrics
the sun is on the crowded street
it kindles those old towers;
where england’s n0blest memories meet
of old historic hours
vast, shadowy, dark, and indistinct
tradition’s giant fane
whereto a thousand years are linked
in one electric chain
so stands it when the morning light
first steals upon the skies;
and shadow’d by the fallen night
the sleeping city lies
it stands with darkness round it cast
touched by the first cold shine;
vast, vague, and mighty as the past
of which it is the shrine
’tis lovely when the moonlight falls
around the sculptured stone
giving a softness to the walls
like love that mourns the gone
then comes the gentlest influence
the human heart can know
the mourning over those gone hence
to the still dust below
the smoke, the noise, the dust of day
have vanished from the scene;
the pale lamps gleam with spirit ray
o’er the park’s sweeping green
sad shining on her lonely path
the moon’s calm smile above
seems as it lulled life’s toil and wrath
with universal love
past that still hour, and its pale moon
the city is alive;
it is the busy hour of noon
when man must seek and strive
the pressure of our actual life
is on the waking brow;
labour and care, endurance, strife
these are around him now
how wonderful the common street
its tumult and its throng
the hurrying of the thousand feet
that bear life’s cares along
how strongly is the present felt
with such a scene beside;
all sounds in one vast murmur melt
the thunder of the tide
all hurry on—none pause to look
upon another’s face:
the present is an open book
none read, yet all must trace
the poor man hurries on his race
his daily bread to find;
the rich man has yet wearier chase
for pleasure’s hard to bind
all hurry, though it is to pass
for which they live so fast—
what doth the present but amass
the wealth that makes the past
the past is round us—those old spires
that glimmer o’er our head;
not from the present is their fires
their light is from the dead
but for the past, the present’s powers
were waste of toil and mind;
but for those long and glorious hours
which leave themselves behind
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