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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 ironcladIn every sound and channel float,The growl of armies, bound in chainsOf parchment peace that chafes and fretsTheir seven-leagued limbs and bristled manesOf 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 undertonesWithin 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 giveA 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 riseSome unexpected dreadful dawn—The gleam of steeled and scowling eyes,A flash of women's faces wan!
Basil.This is St. George's Day.
Menzies.St. George? A wretched thief, I vow.

Herbert.

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