Yellow Nineties 2.0 The Yellow Book: An Illustrated Quarterly, Volume 5 April 1895 <editor>Lorraine Janzen Kooistra</editor> </titleStmt> <editionStmt> <p> <date>2019</date> </p> </editionStmt> <publicationStmt> <idno>YBV5_42dr</idno> <publisher>Yellow Nineties 2.0</publisher> <pubPlace>Ryerson University Centre for Digital Humanities</pubPlace> <address> <addrLine>English Department</addrLine> <addrLine>350 Victoria Street,</addrLine> <addrLine>Toronto ON,</addrLine> <addrLine>M5B 2K3</addrLine> <addrLine>Canada</addrLine> </address> <availability> <p>Usable according to the Creative Commons License <ref target="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/">Attribution Non-commercial Share-alike</ref>.</p> </availability> </publicationStmt> <sourceDesc> <biblStruct> <monogr> <editor> <persName>Henry Harland</persName> </editor> <author>John Davidson</author> <title>Fleet Street Eclogue John Lane London Copeland & Day Boston April 1895 Davidson, John. "Fleet Street Eclogue." The Yellow Book, vol. 5, April 1895, pp. 297-317. Yellow Book Digital Edition, edited by Dennis Denisoff and Lorraine Janzen Kooistra, 2010-2014. Yellow Nineties 2.0, Ryerson University Centre for Digital Humanities, 2019. https://1890s.ca/YBV5_davidson_fleet/

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Fleet Street Eclogue* <lb/> St. George's Day By John Davidson BASIL. MENZIES. PERCY. BRIAN. HERBERT. SANDY. MENZIES. WHAT thought may burst the bond Of rasping spleen ? What hope its victim soothe ? What dream assuage his pains ? HERBERT. An old stile stands between Two beeches silvery smooth, All carved and kissed by lovers fond. MENZIES. The foolish country swains ! * Copyright in America by John Lane. HERBERT. 300 Fleet Street Eclogue HERBERT. Oh ! but the old stile stands, For ever dear to me— Foot-worn, its bars by many hands Polished like ebony ! MENZIES. But me my city spleen Holds in a fretting bond. HERBERT. And the quickset hedges mantle green, And the fields roll green beyond ; While the antique footpath winds about By farms and little towns, By waterways, and in and out, And up and over the downs. MENZIES. I hear the idle workmen's sighs ; I hear their children's hungry cries ; I hear the burden of the years ; I hear the drip of women's tears ; I hear despair, whose tongue is dumb, Speak thunder in the ruthless bomb. SANDY. But why keep brooding over ill ? Why hearken such discordant tones ? HERBERT By John Davidson 301 HERBERT. We dream, we sing ; we drive the quill To keep the flesh upon our bones : Therefore what trade have we with wrongs, With ways and woes that spoil our songs ? MENZIES. None, none ! Alas, there lies the sting ! We see, we feel, but cannot aid ; We hide our foolish heads and sing ; We live, we die ; and all is said. HERBERT. To wonder-worlds of old romance Our aching thoughts for solace run. BRIAN. And some have stolen fire from France. SANDY. And some adore the Midnight Sun. MENZIES. I, too, for light the world explore, And, trembling, tread where angels trod ; Devout at every shrine adore, And follow after each new god. But 302 Fleet Street Eclogue But by the altar everywhere I find the money-changer's stall ; And littering every temple-stair The sick and sore like maggots crawl. BRIAN. Hush, hush ! MENZIES. I cannot hush ! The poor, The maimed, the halt, the starving come, Crying for help at every door ; But loud the ecclesiastic drum Outbids them ; and behind it wait The bones and cleavers of the State. SANDY. This smacks of Disestablishment ! BRIAN. We'll find him next attacking Rent ! BASIL. Your talk is vain ; your voice is hoarse. MENZIES. I would they were as hoarse and vain As their wide-weltering spring and source Of helpless woe, of wrath insane. HERBERT. By John Davidson 303 HERBERT. Why will you hug the coast of Hell ? BRIAN. Why antedate the Judgment Day ? MENZIES. Nay, flout me not ; you know me well. BASIL. Right, comrade ! Give your fancy way. MENZIES. I cannot see the stars and flowers, Nor hear the lark's soprano ring, Because a ruddy darkness lowers For ever, and the tempests sing. I see the strong coerce the weak, And labour overwrought rebel ; I hear the useless treadmill creak, The prisoner, cursing in his cell ; I see the loafer-burnished wall ; I hear the rotting match-girl whine ; I see the unslept switchman fall ; I hear the explosion in the mine ; I see along the heedless street The sandwichmen trudge through the mire ; I hear the tired quick-tripping feet Of 304 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 ironclad In every sound and channel float. The growl of armies, bound in chains Of parchment peace that chafes and frets Their seven-leagued limbs and bristled manes Of 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 undertones Within 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 give A 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 rise Some 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. By John Davidson 305 HERBERT. Nay, Menzies, you should rather say, St. George for Merry England, now ! SANDY. That surely is a phantom cry, Hollow and vain for many years. MENZIES. I hear the idle workmen sigh ; I hear the drip of women's tears. BASIL. I hear the laughing, singing voice Of Shakespeare warming England through ; His birthday, this. HERBERT. Again rejoice, For this is Wordsworth's birthday, too. MENZIES. I hear the agitator shout ; I hear the broker cheapen love ; I hear poor ladies crying out For license men are weary of. HERBERT. Fleet Street Eclogue HERBERT. I hear the lofty lark, The lowly nightingale. BASIL. The Present is a dungeon dark Of social problems. Break the gaol ! Get out into the splendid Past, Or bid the splendid Future hail. MENZIES. Nor then, nor now, nor first, nor last, I know. The slave of ruthless Law, To me Time seems a dungeon vast Where Life lies rotting in the straw. BASIL. I care not for your images Of Life and Law. I want to sing Of England and of Englishmen Who made our country what it is. HERBERT. And I to praise the English Spring. PERCY. St. George for Merry England, then! MENZIES. By John Davidson 307 MENZIES. There is no England now, I fear. BASIL. No England, say you ; and since when ? MENZIES. Cockney and Celt and Scot are here, And Democrats and "ans" and "ists" In clubs and cliques and divers lists ; But now we have no Englishmen. BASIL. You utter what you never felt, I know. By bog and mount and fen, No Saxon, Norman, Scot, or Celt I find, but only Englishmen. HERBERT. In all our hedges roses bud. BASIL. And thought and speech are more than blood. HERBERT. Away with spleen, and let us sing The English Spring, the English Spring ! The Yellow Book—Vol. V. S BASIL. 308 Fleet Street Eclogue BASIL. In weeds of gold and purple hues Glad April bursts with piping news Of swifts and swallows come again, And of the tender pensive strain The bullfinch sings from bush to bush. PERCY. And oh ! the blackbird and the thrush Interpret as no maestro may The meaning of the night and day. SANDY. They catch the whispers of the breeze And weave them into melodies. BRIAN. They utter for the hours that pass The purpose of their moments bright. BASIL. They speak the passion of the grass, That grows so stoutly day and night. HERBERT. St. George for Merry England then ! For we are all good Englishmen ! PERCY. By John Davidson 309 PERCY. We stand as our forefathers stood For Liberty's and Conscience' sake. HERBERT. We are the sons of Robin Hood, The sons of Hereward the Wake. PERCY. The sons of yeomen, English-fed, Ready to feast or drink or fight. HERBERT. The sons of kings—of Hal and Ned, Who kept their island right and tight. PERCY. The sons of Cromwell's Ironsides, Who knew no king but God above. BASIL. We are the sons of English brides, Who married Englishmen for love. SANDY. Oh, now I see Fate's means and ends ! The Bruce and Wallace wight I ken, Who 310 Fleet Street Eclogue Who saved old Scotland from its friends, Were mighty northern Englishmen. BRIAN. And Parnell, who so greatly fought To make a mob people, then With Fate inevitably wrought That Irish should be Englishmen. BASIL. By bogland, highland, down, and fen, All Englishmen, all Englishmen ! MENZIES. There is no England now, I say— BRIAN. No England now ? My grief, my grief ! MENZIES. We lie widespread, the dragon-prey Of any Cappadocian thief. In Arctic and Pacific seas We lounge and loaf; and either pole We reach with sprawling colonies— Unwieldy limbs that lack a soul. BASIL. By John Davidson 311 BASIL. St. George for Greater England, then ! The Boreal and the Austral men ! They reverence the heroic roll Of Englishmen who sang and fought : They have a soul, a mighty soul, The soul of English speech and thought. SANDY. And when the soul of England slept— BASIL. St. George for foolish England, then !— SANDY. Lo ! Washington and Lincoln kept America for Englishmen ! BASIL. Hurrah ! The English people reigns Across the wide Atlantic flood ! It could not bind itself in chains, For Yankee blood is English blood ! HERBERT. And here the spring is queen In robes of white and green. PERCY. 312 Fleet Street Eclogue PERCY. In chestnut sconces opening wide Tapers shall burn some fresh May morn. BRIAN. And the elder brightens the highway side, And the bryony binds the thorn. SANDY. White is the snow of the leafless sloe, The saxifrage by the sedge, And white the lady-smocks a-row And sauce-alone in the hedge. BASIL. England is in her Spring ; She only begins to be. Oh ! for an organ voice to sing The summer I can see ! But the Past is there ; and a mole may know, And a bat may understand, That we are the people wherever we go— Kings by sea and land ! HERBERT. And the spring is crowned and stoled In purple and in gold. PERCY. By John Davidson 313 PERCY. Wherever light, wherever shade is, Gold and purple may be seen. BRIAN. Gold and purple lords-and-ladies Tread a measure on the green. SANDY. Among the long brown furrow lines The charlock's mustard flowers come up. HERBERT. On happy banks the primrose shines ; In lustrous meads, the buttercup. HERBERT. In deserts where the wild wind blows Blossoms the magic hæmony, PERCY. Deep in the Chiltern woodland glows The purple pasque anemone. BASIL. And England still grows great, And never shall grow old ; Within 314 Fleet Street Eclogue Within our hands we hold The world's fate. MENZIES. We hold the world's fate ? The cry seems out of date. BASIL. Not while a single Englishman Can work with English brains and bones ! Awaiting us since time began, The swamps of ice, the wastes of flame In Boreal and Austral zones Took life and meaning when we came. The Sphinx that watches by the Nile Has seen great empires pass away : The mightiest lasted but a while ; Yet ours shall not decay. Because, although red blood may flow, And ocean shake with shot, Not England's sword but England's Word Undoes the Gordian Knot. Bold tongue, stout heart, strong hand, brave brow The world's four quarters win ; And patiently with axe and plough We bring the deserts in. MENZIES. Whence comes this patriotic craze ? Spare us at least the hackneyed brag About the famous English flag. BASIL. By John Davidson 315 BASIL. I'll spare no flourish of its praise. Where'er our flag floats in the wind Order and justice dawn and shine. The dusky myriads of Ind, The swarthy tribes far south the line, And all who fight with lawless law, And all with lawless men who cope, Look hitherward across the brine, For we are the world's forlorn hope. MENZIES. That makes my heart leap up ! Hurrah ! We are the world's forlorn hope ! HERBERT. And with the merry birds we sing The English Spring, the English Spring. PERCY. Iris and orchis now unfold. BRIAN. The drooping-leaved laburnums ope In thunder-showers of greenish gold. MENZIES. And we are the world's forlorn hope ! SANDY. 316 Fleet Street Eclogue SANDY. The lilacs shake their dancing plumes Of lavender, mauve, and heliotrope. HERBERT. The speedwell on the highway blooms. MENZIES. And we are the world's forlorn hope ! SANDY. Skeletons lurk in every street. HERBERT. We push and strike for air and scope. BRIAN. The pulses of rebellion beat Where want and hunger sulk and mope. MENZIES. But though we wander far astray, And oft in utter darkness grope, Fearless we face the roughest day, For we are the world's forlorn hope. SANDY. By John Davidson 317 SANDY. St. George for Merry England then ! For we are all good Englishmen ! BASIL. St. George for Greater England then ! The Boreal and the Austral men ! ALL. By bogland, highland, down, and fen, All Englishmen, all Englishmen ! Who with their latest breath shall sing Of England and the English Spring ! BALLANTYNE PRESS LONDON & EDINBURGH