# A Little Child's Monument/In London

London: C. Kegan Paul & Co., pages 67–71
The mighty towers of Westminster Loom beneath me in murk air, While a vast expanse of street Echoes to loud-hurrying feet Of men and horses, and swift wheels, Where a clanging steeple peals, Where he, who with deep feeling cons The souls of animals, in bronze Wrought majestic lion forms, Brooding, slumbering, dark storms, Symbols of our England's power, Whose dread lightnings brood and glower, Like those fulvous eyes; their claws Are death, hid sheathed in vasty paws. On the lion a child gazes; Grave brown wondering eyes he raises To the form: compelled to leave, With all my sight to him I cleave In departing; often since As from a sickening stroke I wince,
Journeying by the very place Where I beheld his little face Pondering on the mighty beast, More than all to me, though least, Seeing now through tear suffusion Without him all the loud confusion!
Once again the living creatures, With their weary sullen features, I behold behind the bars, Where the den's dull limit mars All wild splendour of their pride, Abates the grandeur of their stride. Bondage tames the fervid eyes, As night doth the torrid skies, To a lurid sultriness, Clouded o'er with vague distress; Emblems of our human race, Fallen from their lofty place, Blind, bewildered, bound within By the manacles of sin!
With a glad and grave surprise The terror of their gleaming eyes He considers, mirthful mime Of them in a little time. Again I view the elephant,
Slow-pacing in his wonted haunt, On whose tall, broad, howdah'd back The child and I along the track Three years ago swung, full of glee— Now the child is not with me!
When our wild praying seemed to stir God's awful executioner, Whose blank, set countenance faint quavered, Whose dull resolve a moment wavered, And when sweet life seemed to repel Death's white horror, it befell That when he would descend the stair, Patient he paused for one to bear Him feeble, and I filled the want; So he named me his elephant.
Passing through the gay arcade, Where toys for children are displayed, Anon I pause before a toy, Dreaming how a little boy Will lighten mirth from his dear face If I buy it—for a space Unremembering my home Without him is but blind and dumb! His sacred toys lie idle now: O'er them the pale anguished brow
Of Love's forlorn despair we bend, Hoping life's dull pain may end; Till anon some organ sounds In the street, but no glad bounds Of a child's light feet we note Run to hear the music float, Climb upon a chair to see Dancing dolls' bedizened glee, Or the monkey's mimicry.
What shall I do? … Full many others, Little ones who seem his brothers, Take delight in things like these! Do they ail, or doth the breeze Of pleasure ripple o'er their faces, I will contemplate their graces; I will be a minister The fountain of their joy to stir, In such resorts, and by such measures, As were wont to yield him pleasures; Or where little hearts may ail, Love's yoke-fellow, I will not fail, Where are tears and visage pale, To quell the tyranny of Fate, Or man, that renders desolate: And I deem he will approve In the bowers of holy Love, Near and nearer to me move.
Ours, how weak soe'er, be strife, On the holy side of life! How loud soe'er the world may roar, We know Love will be conqueror!