Like a marching sunset, there, from Leaden Hall to Aldgate, Flared the crimson cressets--O, her brows were haloed then!-- Then the stirring steeds went by with all their mounted trumpeters, Then, in ringing harness, a thousand marching men. Marching--marching--his heart and all the halberdiers, And his pulses throbbing with the throbbing of the drums; Marching--marching--his blood and all the burganets! "Look," she cried, "O, look," she cried, "and now the morrice comes!" Dancing--dancing--her eyes and all the Lincoln Green, Robin Hood and Friar Tuck, dancing through the town! "Where is Marian?" Laughingly she turned to Richard Whittington. "Here," he said, and pointed to her own green gown. Dancing--dancing--her heart and all the morrice-bells! Then there burst a mighty shout from thrice a thousand throats! Then, with all their bows bent, and sheaves of peacock arrows, Marched the tall archers in their white silk coats, White silk coats, with the crest of London City Crimson on the shoulder, a sign for all to read,-- Marching--marching--and then the sworded henchmen, Then, William Walworth, on his great stirring steed. _Flos Mercatorum_, ay, the fish-monger, Walworth,-- He whose nets of silk drew the silver from the tide, He who saved the king when the king was but a prentice,-- Lord Mayor of London, with his sword at his side! Burned with magic changes, his blood and all the pageantry; Burned with deep sea-changes, the wonder in her eyes; _Flos Mercatorum!_ 'Twas the rose-mary of Paphos, Reddening all the City for the prentice and his prize! All the book of London, the pages of adventure, Passed before the prentice on that vigil of St. John: Then the chapmen shook their reins,--"We'll ride behind the revelry, Round again to Cornhill! Up, and follow on!" Riding on his pack-horse, above the shouting multitude, There she turned and smiled at him, and thanked him for his grace: "Let me down by _Red Rose Lane_," and, like a wave of twilight While she spoke, her shadowy hair--touched his tingling face. When they came to _Red Rose Lane_, beneath the blossomed ale-poles, Light along his arm she lay, a moment, leaping down: Then she waved "farewell" to him, and down the Lane he watched her Flitting through the darkness in her gay green gown. All along the Cheape, as he rode among the chapmen, Round by _Black Friars_, to the _Two-Necked Swan_ Coloured like the sunset, prentices and maidens Danced for red roses on the vigil of St. John. Over them were jewelled lamps in great black galleries, Garlanded with beauty, and burning all the night; All the doors were shadowy with orpin and St. John's wort, Long fennel, green birch, and lilies of delight.