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SCENES IN LONDON:—PICCADILLY.
The sun is on the crowded street,
It kindles those old towers;
Where England’s noblest memories meet,
Of old historic hours.
Vast, shadowy, dark, and indistinct,
Tradition’s giant fane,
Whereto a thousand years are linked,
In one electric chain.
So stands it when the morning light
First steals upon the skies;
And shadow’d by the fallen night,
The sleeping city lies.
It stands with darkness round it cast,
Touched by the first cold shine;
Vast, vague, and mighty as the past,
Of which it is the shrine.
’Tis lovely when the moonlight falls
Around the sculptured stone
Giving a softness to the walls,
Like love that mourns the gone.
Then comes the gentlest influence
The human heart can know,
The mourning over those gone hence
To the still dust below.
The smoke, the noise, the dust of day,
Have vanished from the scene;
The pale lamps gleam with spirit ray
O'er the park's sweeping green.
Sad shining on her lonely path,
The moon’s calm smile above,
Seems as it lulled life’s toil and wrath
With universal love.
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