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There came a slow and silent band
In sad procession by;
And downcast every eye.
The sympathizing crowd
By some dark vessel ploughed.
For awe was over all ;
The bugle's wailing call.
The gloves were laid upon the bier,
The helmet and the sword;
As he, too, mourned his lord.
Slowly I followed too
To where a church arose,
Deep as their own repose.
Of one was made a grave;
The weary and the brave.
Of an unconscious ear;
Struck with a sudden fear.
All left the ground, the bugles died
Away upon the wind;
O’er him they left behind.
Again, all filled with light and breath,
I passed the crowded street :
MHE sun is on the crowded street ;
Where England's noblest memories ineet,
Of old historic hours.
Vast, shadowy, dark, and indistinct,
Tradition's giant fane,
In one electric chain.
So stands it when the morning light
First steals upon the skies,
The sleeping city lies.
It stands with darkness round it cast,
Touched by the first cold shine ; Vast, vagnie, 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;
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.
Past that still hour, and its pale moon,
The city is alive;
When man must seek and strive.
The pressure of our actual life
Is on the waking brow;
These are around him now.
How wonderful the common street,
Its tumult and its throng,
The hurrying of the thousand feet
That bear life's cares along.
How strongly is the present felt,
With such a scene beside;
The thunder of the tide.
All hurry on,
none pause to look Upon another's 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;
For pleasure 's hard to bind.
For which they live so fast,
The wealth that makes the past ?
That glimmer o'er our head;
Their light is from the dead.
Were waste of toil and mind
Anonymous. PALL MALL.
little friend, so small and neat,
In Pall Mall daily;
You tript so gayly.
That I was crowning;
You were not frowning.
Nor joy nor sorrow;
We meet to-morrow!
And you were poor; and how?
and why? How kind to come, it was for my
Especial grace meant !
About your casement ?
I often wander up and down,
In golden glory;