Analysis of Sunday at Hampstead

(AN VERY IDLE IDYLL BY A VERY HUMBLE MEMBER OF THE GREAT AND NOBLE LONDON MOB.)

This is the Heath of Hampstead,
This is the Dome of Saint Paul’s;
Beneath, on the serried house-tops,
A chequered luster falls:

And the might city of London,
Under the clouds and the light,
Seems a low, wet beach, half shingle,
With a few sharp rocks upright.

Here we sit, my darling,
And dream an hour away:
The donkeys are hurried and worried,
But we are not donkeys to-day:

Through all the weary week, dear,
We toil in the murk down there,
Tied to a desk and a counter,
A patient, stupid pair!

But on Sunday we slip our thether,
And away from the smoke and the smirch;
Too grateful to God for His Sabbath
To shut its hours in a church.

Away to the green, green country,
Under the open sky;
Where the earth’s sweet breath is incense
And the lark sings psalms on high.

On Sunday we’re Lord and Lady,
With ten times the love and glee
Of those pale, languid rich ones
Who are always and never free.

The drawl and stare and simper,
So fine and cold and staid,
Like exquisite waxwork figures
That must be kept in the shade.

We can laugh out loud when merry,
We can romp at kiss-in-the-ring,
We can take our beer at a public,
We can loll on the grass and sing.

Would you grieve very much, my darling,
If all yon low wet shore
Were drowned by a mighty flood tide,
And we never toiled there more?

Wicked—there is no sin, dear,
In an idle dreamer’s head;
He turns the world topsy-turvy
To prove that his soul’s not dead.

I am sinking, sinking, sinking;
It’s hard to sit upright!
Your lap is the softest pillow!
Good night, my love, good night!

How your eyes dazzle down into my soul!
I drink and drink of their deep violet wine,
And ever thirst the more, although my whole
Dazed being whirls in drunkenness divine.

Pout down your lips for that bewildering smile,
And kiss me for the interruption, Sweet!
I had escaped you: floating for awhile
In that far cloud ablaze with living heat:

I floated with it though the solemn skies,
I melted with it up the Crystal Sea
Into the heaven of Heavens; and shut my eyes
To fell eternal rest enfolding me . . .

Well, I prefer on tyrannous girl down here,
You jealous violet-eyed Bewitcher, you!
To being lord in Mohammed's seventh sphere
Of meekest hours threescore ten and two!

Was it hundreds of years ago, my Love,
Was it thousands of miles away,
The two poor creatures we know, my Love,
Were toiling day by day;
Were toiling weary, weary.,
With many myriads more,
In a City dark and dreary
On a sullen river’s shore?

Was it truly a fact or a dream, my Love?
I think my brain still reels,
And my ears still throbbing seem, my Love,
With the rush and clang of wheels;
Of vast machinery roaring
Forever in skyless gloom;
Where the poor slaves peach imploring,
Found peace alone in the tomb.

Was it hundreds of years ago, my Love,
Was it thousands of miles away?
Or was it a dream to show, my Love,
The rapture of today?
This day of holy splendor,
This Sabbath of rich rest,
Wherein to God we render
All praise by being blest.

Eight of us promised to meet here
And tea together at five:
And -- who would ever believe it? --
We are the first to arrive!

Oh, shame on us, in darling;
It is a monstrous crime
To make a tryst with others
And be before our time!

Lizzie is off with William,
Quite happy for her part;
Our sugar in her pocket,
And the sweet love in her heart.

Mary and Dick so grandly
Parade suburban streets;
His waistcoat and her bonnet
Proving the best of treats.

And Fanny plagues big Robert
With tricks of the wildest glee:
0 Fanny, you'll get in hot water
If you do not bring us our tea!

Why, bless me, look at that table,
Every one of them there! --
'Ha, here at last we have them,
The always behindhand pair!

'When the last trumpet-solo
Strikes up instead of the lark,
They'll turn in their sleep just grunting
Who's up so soon in the dark?'

Babble and gabble, you rabble,
A thousand in full yell!
And this is your Tower of Babel,
This not-to-be-finished Hotel. *

* THOMSON'S NOTE: Since finished, i