Volume 146 — A COCKAIGNE OF DREAMS.

Thanks to a gift of piercing sight (Not far removed from that of Moses), Beyond the secular veil of night I see a City crowned with light, A London redolent of roses. I note an air of morning prime, As used by bards for their afflatus, Recovered from the spacious time Ere yet a triple coat of grime Had blocked our breathing-apparatus. Swept clean of smuts and chimney-stacks Each roof becomes a blooming garden, And there, reclining on its backs, All day the jocund public slacks As in the thymy glades of Arden. On Thames's bosom, crystal-clear, Glad urchins bob about like bladders; The fly is cast from Wapping pier, And over the Pool's pellucid weir Salmon go leaping up their ladders. I dream how Covent's gritty bowers (By leave of Mallaby's line) shall wear a Fat smile to greet the sunnier hours For joy of battles fought with flowers, As it might be in Bordighera. New Bond Streets on the Surrey side Shall flaunt their gems and rare chinchillas To swell the local mummer's pride, And every bridge shall span the tide With Arcadies of Aston villas. I see, in fact, old London rise From smokeless ashes, like a Phœnix, To moral planes where Beauty lies And Electricity supplies The motive power of pure Hygienics. But not in our time (hush, my heart!); A score of lustres will have fleeted Before the Ministry of Art, Though it should make an early start, Can hope to see the thing completed. Meanwhile this London is my place. Sad though her dirt, as I admit, is, I love the dear unconscious grace That shines beneath her sooty face Better than all your well-groomed cities.