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Poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon


Piccadilly


THE SUN is on the crowded street;
  It kindles those old towers,
Where Englands noblest memories meet,
  Of old historic hours.

Vast, shadowy, dark, and indistinct,
  Traditions 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, shadowed 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.

T is 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
  Oer the parks sweeping green.

Sad shining on her lonely path,
  The moons calm smile above,
Seems as it lulled lifes toil and wrath
  With universal love.

Past that still hour, and its pale moon,
  The city is alive;
It is the busy hour of noon,
  When man must seek and strive.

The pressure of our actual life
  Is on the waking brow;
Labor and care, endurance, strife,
  These are around him now.

How wonderful the common street,
  Its tumult and its throng,
The hurrying of the thousand feet
  That bear lifes cares along.

How strongly is the present felt,
  With such a scene beside;
All sounds in one vast murmur melt
  The thunder of the tide.

All hurry on,none pause to look
  Upon anothers face:
The present is an open book
  None read, yet all must trace.

The poor man hurries on his race,
  His daily bread to find;
The rich man has yet wearier chase,
  For pleasure s hard to bind.

All hurry, though it is to pass
  For which they live so fast,	
What doth the present but amass
  The wealth that makes the past?

The past is round us,those old spires
  That glimmer oer our head;
Not from the present is their fires,
  Their light is from the dead.

But for the past the presents powers
  Were waste of toil and mind
But for those long and glorious hours
  Which leave themselves behind.



Letitia Elizabeth Landon

Poem Theme: London

Letitia Elizabeth Landon's other poems:
  1. Ideal Likenesses. Ariadne
  2. The Reply of the Fountain
  3. The Tournament
  4. The Nameless Grave
  5. Song (I wrote my name upon the sand)


Poems of the other poets with the same name:

  • Frederick Locker-Lampson Piccadilly ("Gay shops, stately palaces, bustle and breeze")

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