Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.
Ernest Rhys b. 1860London Feast
O
My sunburnt herdsmen of the hill,
That leave your herds no pastoral priest,
And take the road where, sad and dun,
The smoke-cloud drapes the April sun?—
“We go to taste
Of London feast.”
Why do you leave the country-side?
The new-come Spring stirs bird and beast;
The winter storm is over now,
And melted the December snow:—
“We go to taste
Of London feast!”
With dancing eyes and country curls,
Is April naught, the maypole ceased,
That you must leave the daisied places
That painted all your pretty faces?—
“We go to taste
Of London feast.”
That leave your dales, and the sweet brown earth,
Are country acres so decreased,
And Cumbrian fells no longer ringing
With bleating lambs, and blackbirds singing?—
“We go to taste
Of London feast.”
Are you, too, of this company?—
The shifting wind ’s no longer east;
Yet you have put the helm about,
To come ashore, and join the rout?—
“We go to taste
Of London feast.”
I have seen there these many years,
How Most grew more, and less grew Least;
And now you go too late; the board
Cannot one crumb to you afford:
You cannot taste
Of London feast.
For London Feast is past and gone!
I sat it out, and now released
Make westward from its weary gate.
Fools and unwise, you are too late:
“We go to taste
Of London feast.”
I saw the dust on London way
By denser thousands still increased:
My cry was vain. As they went by
Their murmur ran, for all reply:—
“We go to taste
Of London feast.”