In London Town

It is not here I best enjoy
The pleasure, that can never cloy,
Of idly roaming London town,
Where such familiar names look down
Upon the wanderer in the street,
From Cheapside, Cornhill, and the Fleet.
The noisy, pushing, bustling crowd,
The din of trade and traffic loud,
Confuse the too bewildered sense
And drive a thousand memories hence.
When in the quiet town once more,
Where not a murmur of the roar
Of busy trade or loud displays
Disturb the quiet of her ways,
Backward my soul will turn and then
Will walk these London streets again;
While wits and poets of years gone by,
Who now in dim cathedrals lie,
Will meet me where their memories make
The places dearer for their sake —

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poem by Walter Learned
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The Last Reservation

Sullen and dull, in the September day,
On the bank of the river,
They waited the boat that should bear them away
From their poor homes forever.

For progress strides on, and the order had gone
To these wards of the nation:
'Give us land and more room,' was the cry, 'and move on
To the next reservation.'

With her babe, she looked back at her home 'neath the trees
From which they were driven,
Where the last camp-fire's smoke, borne out on the breeze,
Rose slowly toward heaven.

Behind her, fair fields, and the forest and glade,
The home of her nation;
Around her, the gleam of the bayonet and blade
Of civilization.

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poem by Walter Learned
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