POETRY.
DOWN DRURY LANE.
THE dingy street is all aflare with light
That blazes from the garish drinking-bars Athwart the solemn purple of the night, Athwart the steadfast shining of the stars.
A battered barrel-organ, bold and loud, Grinds out the strains of a familiar air ; And on the dusty pavement whirls a crowd Of children dancing quaintly in the glare.
Oblivious of their hunger and their rags, With little flickering feet that never tire, They eddy over the uneven flags Like flights of birds about a windy spire.
And fluttering absorbed and dreamy-eyed, They gain once more a well-beloved clime, Where all around them, beautiful and wide, Is spread the blissful land of Pantomime.
Once more, in filmy frocks of silver sheen,
In flowery wreaths and silken sandals small, They flit beneath the Beanstalk high and green,
Or dance with Cinderella at the Ball.
Once more they circle round the palace dim In which the lovely sleeping Beauty lies, And poise toipatch the Prince so young and slim Awake her with a kiss upon her eyes.
Ah, Fairyland! It stretches far and near Its mazy windings mystically sweet; It has a dazzling doorway even here In all the squalor of this joyless street:
FRANCES WYNNE.
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