Alcyone

by Archibald Lampman


 

 

THE CITY


 

Canst thou not rest, O city,
    That liest so wide and fair;
Shall never an hour bring pity,
    Nor end be found for care?

Thy walls are high in heaven,                                                       5
    Thy streets are gay and wide,
Beneath thy towers at even
    The dreamy waters glide.

Thou art fair as the hills at morning,
    And the sunshine loveth thee,                                                10
But its light is a gloom of warning
    On a soul no longer free.

The curses of gold are about thee,
    And thy sorrow deepeneth still;
One madness within and without thee,                                     15
    One battle blind and shrill.

I see the crowds for ever
    Go by with hurrying feet;
Through doors that darken never
    I hear the engines beat.                                                         20

Through days and nights that follow
    The hidden mill-wheel strains;
In the midnight’s windy hollow
    I hear the roar of trains.

And still the day fulfilleth,                                                           25
    And still the night goes round,
And the guest-hall boometh and shrilleth,
    With the dance’s mocking sound.

In chambers of gold elysian,
    The cymbals clash and clang,                                              30
But the days are gone like a vision
    When the people wrought and sang.

And toil hath fear for neighbour,
    Where singing lips are dumb,
And life is one long labour,                                                       35
    Till death or freedom come.

Ah! the crowds that for ever are flowing—
    They neither laugh nor weep—
I see them coming and going,
    Like things that move in sleep.                                             40

Grey sires and burdened brothers,
    The old, the young, the fair,
Wan cheeks of pallid mothers,
    And the girls with golden hair.

Care sits in many a fashion,                                                     45
    Grown grey on many a head,
And lips are turned to ashen
    Whose years have right to red.

Canst thou not rest, O city,
    That liest so wide, so fair;                                                     50
Shall never an hour bring pity,
    Nor end be found for care?