ALL day these eyes with fairest things are blest,—
The mystic lights upon the distant steep, The diamond sparkle of the rills that leap, The purple rocks with ferny broidery drees'd. At night there flames upon the mountain-crest The beacon-moon, and, o'er the waveless deep, Like twisting snakes of fire the moonbeams creep Down the long heavings of the sea's calm breast.
0 my East London ! In thy sordid street The sun is scorching day by day ; and Night, Which 'mid these hills is always pure and sweet, Brings only wanton din and flaunting light.
Oh! blest who to thy weary toil may bear Some holy effluence from these scenes so fair !
W. W. B.