The city’s stony roar around! The city’s stifling air! The London May’s distracting sound, And dust, and heat, and glare! She sings to-night who puts to shame Her fabled sisters’ syren-fame; And, swarming through one mighty street, From all opposing points they meet; And hurrying, whirling, madd’ning on, The crashing wheels and battling crowd Are coming still, and still are gone— The Thunder and the Cloud. But the gush of faint odours From apple-tree blooms— The dew-fall by starlight In green mossy glooms— The sob of low breezes Through hill-lifted pines Looking miles o’er lone moorlands While evening declines— The dying away Of far bleats at the shealing, The hum of the night-fly Where streamlets are stealing— All are floating, this moment, or mournfully heard, (Distinct as lutes mid trumpets) round thy cage, heart-breaking Bird! They heed, nor hear—that seething mass— But storm and brawl and burst along, Porter and Peer—the City class— And high-born Beauty shrined in glass— The pale Mechanic and his lass— Thick as the scythe-awaiting grass, In one discordant throng. While, loud with many a clanging bell, Some annual joy the steeples tell, And waggons’ groan and drivers’ yell The loud hubbub and riot swell; Yet still the stunn’d ear drinks, through all, that liquid song.