With aching heart, and thought 'I shall not see Her face again.' There, as the coloured dawn Over the sleeping City slowly bloomed, A small black battered ship with tattered sails Blurring the burnished glamour of the Thames Crept, side-long to a wharf. Then, all at once, The London bells rang out a welcome home; And, over them all, tossing the tenor on high, The Bell of Bow, a sun among the stars, Flooded the morning air with this refrain:-- 'Turn again, Whittington! Turn again, Whittington! _Flos Mercatorum_, thy ship hath come home! Trailing from her cross-trees the crimson of the sunrise, Dragging all the glory of the sunset thro' the foam. Turn again, Whittington, Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London! Turn again, Whittington! When thy hope was darkest, Far beyond the sky-line a ship sailed for thee. _Flos Mercatorum_, O, when thy faith was blindest, Even then thy sails were set beyond the Ocean-sea.' So he heard and heeded us, and turned again to London, Stick and bundle on his back, he turned to _Red Rose Lane_, Hardly hearing as he went the chatter of the prentices,-- _What d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack, and what d'ye lack again?_ Back into the scullery, before the cook had missed him, Early in the morning his labours he began: Once again to clean the shoes and clatter with the water-pail, Once again to scrub the jack and scour the dripping-pan. All the bells of London were pealing as he laboured. Wildly beat his heart, and his blood began to race. Then--there came a light step and, suddenly, beside him Stood his lady Alice, with a light upon her face. 'Quick,' she said, 'O, quick,' she said, 'they want you, Richard Whittington!' 'Quick,' she said; and, while she spoke, her lighted eyes betrayed All that she had hidden long, and all she still would hide from him. So--he turned and followed her, his green-gowned maid. * * * *