The rhady lane, the hedgerow, and the wood,
And ripening fields have won the poet’s heart,
Until the love of Nature is a part
Of his soul’s being ;-yet own I the mood
That seeks out nature in the crowded mart,
Nor thinks the poet’s teaching unwithstood,
Because, within the thicker solitude
Of peopled cities, fancy plays its part :-
“Man made the town,” and therefore fellowman
May garner there, within its dusky lanes
Of pent-up life, an airy empyrean,
Dwelling apart, in sympathy, where wanes
The light of present being, while the vast
“ Has been” awakes again,-the being of the past.
Hoar relic of the past, whose ancient spire
Climbs heavenward amid the crowded mart,
Keeping as ’twere within the city’s heart,
One shrine where reverent thoughts may yet retire ;
And dreaming fancies, from the world apart,
Wander among old tales of which thou art
Sole relic. Is it vain that we inquire
Somewhat of scenes where thou hast borne a part ?
Mine own St Oiles I
And superatitions,-even of the heart,-
Thyself has changed some wrinkles for a smart
Now suit of modern fashion. To my eye
The old one best beseemed thee, yet the more
Cling I to what remains, the SOUoIf yore.
Old fashions have gone by,
