Peals for the wedding of our joy and pain! This was well seen of Richard Whittington; For only he that finds the London streets Paved with red flints, at last shall find them paved Like to the Perfect City, with pure gold. Ye know the world! what was a London waif To Hugh Fitzwarren's daughter? He was fed And harboured; and the cook declared she lacked A scullion. So, in Hugh Fitzwarren's house, He turned the jack, and scoured the dripping-pan. How could he hope for more? This marchaunt's house Was builded like a great high-gabled inn, Square, with a galleried courtyard, such as now The players use. Its rooms were rich and dim With deep-set coloured panes and massy beams. Its ancient eaves jutted o'er _Red Rose Lane_ Darkly, like eyebrows of a mage asleep. Its oaken stair coiled upward through a dusk Heavy with fume of scented woods that burned To keep the Plague away,--a gloom to embalm A Pharaoh, but to dull the cheek and eye Of country lads like Whittington. He pined For wind and sunlight. Yet he plied his task Patient as in old tales of Elfin-land, The young knight would unhelm his golden locks And play the scullion, so that he might watch His lady's eyes unknown, and oftener hear Her brook-like laughter rippling overhead; Her green gown, like the breath of Eden boughs, Rustling nigh him. And all day long he found Sunshine enough in this. But when at night He crept into the low dark vaulted den, The cobwebbed cellar, where the cook had strewn The scullion's bed of straw (and none too thick Lest he should sleep too long), he choked for breath; And, like an old man hoarding up his life, Fostered his glimmering rushlight as he sate Bolt upright, while a horrible scurry heaved His rustling bed, and bright black-beaded eyes Peered at him from the crannies of the wall. Then darkness whelmed him, and perchance he slept,-- Only to fight with nightmares and to fly Down endless tunnels in a ghastly dream, Hunted by horrible human souls that took The shape of monstrous rats, great chattering snouts, Vile shapes of shadowy cunning and grey greed, That gnaw through beams, and undermine tall towns, And carry the seeds of plague and ruin and death Under the careless homes of sleeping men. Thus, in the darkness, did he wage a war With all the powers of darkness. 'If the light Do break upon me, by the grace of God,' So did he vow, 'O, then will I remember, Then, then, will I remember, ay, and help To build that lovelier City which is paved For rich and poor alike, with purest gold.'