A Town
A BUSY town mid Britain's isle,
Behold in fancy's eye ;
With tower, and spire, and civic pile,
Beneath a summer sky :
And orchard, garden, field, and park,
And grove, and sunny wall ;
And ranging buildings, light and dark,
As evening shadows fall.
Then listen to the ceaseless din
Of hammer, saw, and crane ;
And traffic passing out and in,
From alley, street, and lane.
The sound, without a pause between,
Of foot, and wheel, and hoof ;
The manufacture's loud machine
From yonder lengthened roof.
And children at their evening sports,
Parading to and fro ;
Assembled in the quiet courts
Of yonder cottage row.
Gay streets display their shining wares
To every roving eye,
As eager in their own affairs,
The busy tribes go by.
And ah ! what varied forms of woe,
What hope and fear are found ;
What passions rise, what scandals grow,
Within this narrow bound !
To pass the peaceful dwellings by,
No stranger eye might guess
Those scenes of joy and agony,
Of discord and distress.
Pain writhes within those stately walls ;
Here pallid want hath been ;
That casement where the curtain falls
Shows death has entered in.
The dwelling ranging next to this,
A youthful group displays ;
Elate they seem with present bliss,
And hope of distant days.
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poem by Jane Taylor
Added by Poetry Lover
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