LONDON IN POETRY: A CAUSERIE

Dominion, Volume 11, Issue 229, 15 June 1918, Page 11

LONDON IN POETRY: A CAUSERIE

Chatliufr, from timo to time, w ith retiirneil soldiers 1 find that ulmast unanimously tlioso wlio luve visited "Jilighly"'have ii great ontliusiasm for l<oiidon. Tlioy aio lteinated bv its lmmeusitj-, by the variety of it« life, by the strange elusive charm of tlie Thames, and, übovo all, by the weller of nev"r(•eusiiig movoment which animates il.< Rtrcet scones. Now and then one gets some iiei'sonal point oi' vie.iv whieli is specially interesting. Thus, for in6t:iiK'e, tiiiking the oilier dn.y to ;i clever young soldier artist lately returned from (lie iront I found him enthusiastic over the "colour of London." Ho scoffed at the .all-prevalent notion that London is a drab and dingy city, and instances as a Bpeina.l joy' to tho artistic o,vn tho beautiful silver grey of the J names, and.tho delightful oilccls of the winter sun creeping through the early evening mists. Jly study table- being for once, aiid for a wonder, well-nigh twro of "review copies" I am tempted to £0 to my shelves juul look up a few old favonrito pa.ssngcs in which modern poets have sung of the charm and fascination of London. With my arti=t friend's remarks specially in mind, I turn to Mrs. Jroynell's "Collected Poems,' noiv to be had in a prettily produced one vnlunio edition. Mrs. Jtoyndl is an enthusiastic Londoner (by adoption at least), and in. her "November Blue," pays a charminsr tribule to the atmospheric charm which is peculiarly (hat of a London night scone, 'fivo sample' verses:— 0, heavenly colour! London town Has blurred it from her bMcb And, hooded in an earthly blown, Uiihcavcu'd ilie city lies. No longer standard—like this hue Above tho broad road flicn, Nor does tho narrow Btrcct the blue Wear, slender, liennon-wiso. But when the gold and silver lomps Colour tha London dew, Ami, misted by tho winter damps, The shops niiine bright anew— B"iu comes to earth, it walks the fitrcfit, It dyes the wide air through; A. mimic sky about their feet. The throng go crowned with blue. In a recent addition to my shelves, a Slim lilt-lo volume, entitled "London Lamiw,". by Thomas Burke, whose "Limehouse Nights" and "Twinkletoes," despite im unsparing realism which naturally repels many readers, are undoubtedly amongst the best things in fiction the war period has produced, I fiud, for instance, tho following charming London nocturne, entitled "Evening"! From the Circus to llio Square There's an avenue ol light. Golden; lamps are. everywhere From tho Circus to the Square; And the rosu winged houra there I'ass like lovely birds in flight. From tho Circus to tho Square There's an avenue o£ light. London yields herself to men With the dying of the day. Let the twilight come, and then London yields herself to men. Lords of wealth or slaves of pen, We, her lovers, all will say: London yields herself to men With the dying of As day. There are few New Zealanders who have visited London but know tho quiet, rather drab streets of Blpomsbury and its squares which provide 6iich a welcomerest after the clamour and clangour of a busy thoroughfare such as Oxford Street, which is its southern boundary. Years ago I pasted into ft ncrapbook some lines entitled "Bloqinsbury," written by Mr. Wilford Whitten, who, under the nom de plume of "Jobii 0' London," was a well-known contributor to "T.P.'s Weekly." I quote four stanzas: Some love the Chelsea river gales And the slow barges' ruddy Bails And these I'll woo when glamour fails In Bloomsbury. Enough for me in yonder iiquare To see the perky sparrows pair, Or long laburnum gild the air In Bloomsbury. Enough for mo in midnight skies To see the moons of London rise And weave their silver fantasies In Bloomsbury. Oh;'mine in-snows and summer heats These good old Tory hvick-buiU streets lly eye is pleased with all it meets In Bloomsbury. In many of the squares, mid often iu those curious little by-waters of London life which one finds in odd corners, even in the densely crowded city, tho planetree is quite a feature. From a thin little volume, by the dead poet Amy Levy, published a good many years now in Uuwin'e "Cameo Library," there are some dainty verses entitled "A Londoue Plane Tree." ■en is tho plane-tree in the square The other trees are brown; They droop and pine for countryair Tlie plane-tree loves the town. Here, from my garret pane, I mark I'lie plane-tree bud ami blow, jhi'd her recuperative bark And spread her shade below. Among her branches, in- and out, The city breezes play; The dun fog wraps her round about; Above the smoke curls grey. Others tlio country take iov choice. And hold tho town in scorn; But she has listened to the voice Of city breezes borne. A much older writer, but one whose enthusiasm for the "pleasant land of Cockaigne" never wavers, is Frederick Locker. In his "London Lyrics," n book of clever vers de sbciete, he Jias a poem on "Piccadilly," and another on "St. James's Street." The first begins thus: Piccadilly! Shops, palaces, bustle, and breeze The whirring of wheels, and the murmur of trees; By night or by day, whether noisy or stilly ■Whatever my luoods, I lovn Piccadilly. To Locker St. James's Street, Tho dear old street of clubs and cribs. mainly appeals 'by its literary and oldworld interest. "St. James's Square" is a poem finely representative uf Locker's Jijjhl: and graceful style. As witness the first two verses: Bt. James's Street, of classic fame Jt'or .Fashion still is seen lucre; St. James's Street, I know the muse X almost think I've been there! Why, that's where Saccharissa sigh'd Wlieu Waller read his ditty; Where Byron lived and Gibbon died And Alvanley was witty. A famous street! To yonder Park Young Churchill stole in class time, J.i-.ue. gazo on fifty men of mark, ' And thon recall the paet time. The plate at White's, the play at Crock's, The buuinors to Miss Gunning, The bonhomie of Charley Fox, 1 .And Selwyn'B ghastly i'unuiug. From Piccadilly and St. James's Street it is no fur cry to Hyde Park, and 1 turn to a New Zealandor's book of verse, Arthur Adaius'e but little-known "London Streets" (tho first edition, beautifully produced by Foulis, of Edinburgh, is, J. notice, marked "very scarce" in a recent London catalogue), and. come across some agreeably lilting lines on "Tho Park": It in a roho' of uroen dropt down— A gallant Moßsoin-broidereA gown liiuiiK by tho Country as slio find From Ibe grim onset of Hie Town. Tlii'KO quiet lawns in Winter's hold Are but. ti drub green clofh unrolled, Till enmes that smart (lrnsHinakor, Spring, And slashes it with white and gold. From Hyde Park 'tis but a slono's Ui row to Park Lane, where dwoll South .African diamond kings and cosmopolitan Semitic millionaire?. I'lirk Lam , stands there—a flfilier set Hi'siflns a widening sea of debt Taking grim toll from a drowned worldPark Lam-, slow drawing ni his not. And wife within these, pleasant, meads liif.fle that wiy Indidnrcnco heeda Tho patient menace of the Mass That in its East Kni sulks and breeds 1 , As a pleasant ovening of literary

"dipping" draws to its cioso I lake down the second volume of W. K Henley's "Poems." jind am at once confronted bv the difficulty of choice. Of all the manv poets who have sung of the. wonder, tlio chartn, the witchery of .London there is no otio who is Henley's .superior. My two last quotations shall be from lienley's "London Volunkiriw." Tho liret is a word picture of Trafalgar Square, golden with the late sun of an October day. And the high majesty of Paul's Uplifts a voice of living light, and callsCalls to his millions lo behold and sro How goodly this his London Town can be. For earth and sky and air Aro golden everywhere, And golden with a gold so suiiVe and fine Tlio looking on it lifts the heart like wine. Trafalgar Square. (Tlio fountains' volleying golden glaze) Shines like an engel-in.irket— high aloft Over his cmicliunt [nous, in a 11117.0 Khimuicrini; and bland, and soft, A dust of chryßOpraso, Our Sailor (aim, in,-, i;oklon Raze Of the saluting linn, and names mipcrb As cm lie flamed it on his ocean round The dingy dreariness of tho picture place. Turned very nearly bright., Takes on :i luminous transparency grace And shows no moro a scandal to the ground. The "London Voluntaries" are fn.-tl of beautiful lines, lines possessing that soniiroiis dignity nnd lluil sift of telling dramatic expression for which llenlrv was famous. My special favourite describes Iho fading away of night and the coming of dawn in tho London streets: ... And, lo! the Wizard Hour His sihmt, shining sorcery winged with Still, still tho streets, between their carcancts Of linking gold, are avenues of slf.ep. Hut so; how Bablo ends and parapets In gradual beauty and significance Kraqrgt'! And did vou hear That little twilter-aud chcejiHreaWii(j inordinately .loud and clear On Iliiß still, spectral, exquisite atmosphere? 'Tis a, first neet nt matins! And behold ' A rakehell cat—how furtive and acold! A spent, witch homing from uoine infamous ilance— Obscene, quick-lrotting, see her tip and fade Through shadowy railings into a pit of fihade! Ami now! A. little wind .anil sky The Bnicll of ships that 'earnest of 10mance) ,A sense'of space, and water, and thereby A lainplit bridge ouching the troubled skv, And look, 0 look, a tangle of silver fleams And dusky liphta, our llh-er and all his dreams. His dreoma that never save in our deaths can die. What miracle is happening in (he air. oljai'sin(r the very texture of the gray Willi somothinEr luminous and rare? The night goes out liko an ill-parcelled fire. And, as one lights a cnmlle, It is day. My ■ fountain pen is nearly empty, but a few embsrs remain of the once blazing log. and. best reason of nil for bringing this little gossip to a close, my 6paco limit is reached. Maybe, some other day I may dip into my Ixioks for Rome more liltio vignetlps of London scenes. "IJBEIt."