  IV.I learn'd by rote each bawling word— And with a rapture turn'd the broad, Great staring woodcuts, dark and blurr'd, I never since derived from Claude. —That Cherry-seller's balanced scale, Poised nicely o'er his wares' rich dyes, Gave useful hints, of slight avail, To riper years 'mid London Cries. V.The Newsman wound his noisy horn, And told how slaughter'd friends and foes Lay heap'd, five thousand men, one morn, In thy red trenches, Badajoz. 'Twas Fame, and had its fond abettors; Though some folk now would think it wise To change that F for other letters, And hear no more such London Cries. VI.Here chimed the tiny Sweep;—since then I've loved to drop that trifling balm, Prescribed, lost Elia, by thy pen, Within his small half-perish'd palm.14 And there the Milkmaid tripp'd and splash'd, —All milks that pump or pail supplies, (Save that with human kindness dash'd,) 'Twas mine to quaff 'mid London Cries. VII.That Dustman—how he rang his bell, And yawn'd, and bellow'd "dust below!" I knew the very fellow's yell When first I heard it years ago. What fruits of toil, and tears, and trust, Of cunning hands, and studious eyes, Like Death, he daily sacks to dust, (Here goes my mite) 'mid London Cries! VIII.The most vociferous of the prints Was He who chaunted Savoys sweet, The same who stunn'd, a century since, That proud, poor room in Rider Street: When morning now awakes his note, Like bitter Swift, I often rise, And wish his wares were in that throat To stop at least his London Cries.15 IX.That Orange-girl—far different powers Were hers from those that once could win His worthless heart whose arid hours Were fed with dew and light by Gwynn; The dew of feelings fresh as day— The light of those surpassing eyes— The darkest raindrop has a ray, And Nell had hers 'mid London Cries.16 X.Here sued the Violet-vender bland— It fills me now-a-days with gloom To meet, amid the swarming Strand, Her basket's magical perfume: —The close street spreads to woodland dells, Where early lost Affection's ties Are round me gathering violet-bells, —I'll rhyme no more of London Cries. XI.Yet ere I shut from Memory's sight That cherish'd book, those pictures rare— Be it recorded with delight The Organ-fiend was wanting there. Not till the Peace had closed our quarrels Could slaughter that machine devise (Made from his useless musket-barrels) To slay us 'mid our London Cries. XII.Why did not Martin in his Act Insert some punishment to suit This crime of being hourly rack'd To death by some melodious Brute? From ten at morn to twelve at night His instrument the Savage plies, From him alone there's no respite, Since 'tis the Victim, here, that cries. XIII.Macaulay! Talfourd! Smythe! Lord John! If ever yet your studies brown This pest has broken in upon, Arise and put the Monster down. By all distracted students feel When sense crash'd into nonsense dies Beneath that ruthless Organ's wheel, We call! O hear our London Cries! |
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