Methinks already from this chymic flame |
I see a city of more precious mould, |
Rich as the town which gives the Indies
name, |
With silver paved and all divine with
gold.
|
Already, labouring with a mighty fate, |
She shakes the rubbish from her
mounting brow, |
And seems to have renewed her charter’s
date, |
Which Heaven will to the death of time
allow.
|
More great than human now and more
August, |
New deified she from her fires does
rise: |
Hew widening streets on new foundations
trust, |
And, opening, into larger parts she
flies.
|
Before, she like some shepherdess did
show |
Who sat to bathe her by a river’s side, |
Not answering to her fame, but rude and
low, |
Nor taught the beauteous arts of modern
pride.
|
Now like a maiden queen she will behold |
From her high turrets hourly suitors
come; |
The East with incense and the West with
gold |
Will stand like suppliants to receive
her doom.
|
The silver Thames, her own domestic
flood, |
Shall bear her vessels like a sweeping
train, |
And often wind, as of his mistress
proud, |
With longing eyes to meet her face
again.
|
The wealthy Tagus and the wealthier
Rhine |
The glory of their towns no more shall
boast, |
And Seine, that would with Belgian
rivers join, |
Shall find her lustre stained and
traffic lost.
|
The venturous merchant who designed
more far |
And touches on our hospitable shore, |
Charmed with the splendour of this
northern star, |
Shall here unlade him and depart no
more.
|
John Dryden
| Classic Poems |
|
[ A Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687 ] [ from Absalom and Achitophel ] [ London After the Great Fire, 1666 ] [ To the Memory of Mr Oldham ] [ Macflecknoe ] |