Jerusalem no more golden is Than gloomy Bayswater, I wis! Her portals strike an awe profound— “Fly, loiterers, this is holy ground! Quell impropriety of tone; Hawkers and circulars begone”— For here the ruling race reside And guard our pledges and their pride. Her doors are sour: they never smile, But icily stare for mile on mile— Vast, supercilious, gleaming, hard: Fastened securely, bolted, barred! _The Ballad of the Brave Lover_ (_Thames Embankment_) She wandered by the river’s brink, Her stricken heart stood still: She listened for his hastening step With mind to win or kill. From Ipswich up to London town Long days, long nights walked she: And now had tracked the soldier down Who caused her shame to be. She could not breathe, her throat grew dry, Her soldier looked so brave and strong: “Why Moll, my girl,” she heard him cry, “What brings you here along?” “From Ipswich, Dick, I’ve brought the son,” She moaned, “your broken promise gave.” He looked and laughed: “Poor little one! I’ve used you ill, I have.” She sank, and saw him smile good-bye— She who had thought to kill or win. He was too fine, too bold to die, The weak must suffer for his sin. _The Quarry_ All down that dismal villa’d street, With ugly green front doors, I’d to and fro, on tiptoe feet And wonder which was yours! And when the bedroom candles shone And night fell deep and dark, The road would fade, and I’d press on Across some faery park. And you before me, you so near! —Elusive, ’mid the trees. I the bold horseman, you the deer— What nights, what dreams were these? Must Love and Beauty always fly The eager arms of men? Oh, I shall hunt you till I die, And when I live again! _In a Taxi_ Come, give your hands to me, and lean Your dear bright head against my coat. Let me tear loose the furs that screen The ivory column of your throat. Now, yield your hungry lips to mine, You passionate child! You cling so tight, The blood goes to my head like wine, As we race, breathless, through the night. How the time flies! We’re nearly there. Now grow sedate and proud once more— Put back your furs, bind up your hair, But pause, awhile, outside your door. No one can hear! So now, good-bye! Darling, to crush you, in the gloom, With kisses, would be ecstasy.... “Shh! mother’s moving in her room!” 1908. _In Praise of London_ _I, the son of London men,_ _Give thanks to London once again._ _Here was I born; and I will die_ _Under this friendly leaden sky—_ _Like grandfer’s grandfer, so will I._ City of beauty, flower of cities all— Where “Themmes” runs swiftly, and the ’buses roar (Even down the stately reaches of Whitehall) While chocolate trams invade the Surrey shore— Yours is a glamour which the years enhance And in your grimy streets lives all romance!