25 SEPTEMBER 1942, Page 9


Tins was Guildhall, lord of the City's mile. What echoes did its crusted vaulting hold? Through the great hall the purple and the gold Of English life flashed in their passing, while Our history, in majesty and tears, By ever-watching Time's assiduous hand Was spun into the arras of our land, Brilliant with the pageant of the years.

This is Guildhall : shattered by purblind men, Ravaged by bomb and fire; one of the wounds

Proud London bears.

Guildhall will rise again!

We listen to the mute beseeching cries And know 'tis but the work of hands that dies ;* Heart-deep, untouched, our ancient purpose lies.


* Like this very sonnet. Its author has just been killed.