Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ST. JAMES'S STREET (A GRUMBLE), by FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ST. JAMES'S STREET (A GRUMBLE), by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: St. James's street, of classic fame
Last Line: For this old street before me.
Alternate Author Name(s): Locker, Frederick
Subject(s): St. James Street, London


ST. JAMES'S STREET, of classic fame!
The finest people throng it!
St. James's Street? I know the name,
I think I've passed along it.
Why, that's where Sacharissa sighed
When Waller read his ditty;
Where Byron lived, and Gibbon died,
And Alvanley was witty.

A noted street! It skirts the Park
Where Pepys once took his pastime;
Come, gaze on fifty men of mark,
And then recall the fast time!
The plats at White's, the play at Crock's,
The bumpers to Miss Gunning;
The bonhomie of Charlie Fox,
And Selwyn's ghastly funning.

The dear old street of clubs and cribs,
As north and south it stretches,
Still seems to smack of Rolliad squibs,
And Gillray's fiercer sketches;
The quaint old dress, the grand old style,
The mots, the racy stories;
The wine, the dice, the wit, the bile,
The hate of Whigs and Tories.

At dusk, when I am strolling there,
Dim forms will rise around me;
Lepel flits past me in her chair,
And Congreve's airs astound me!
And once Nell Gwyn, a frail young sprite,
Looked kindly when I met her;
I shook my head, perhaps,--but quite
Forgot to quite forget her.

The street is still a lively tomb
For rich, and gay, and clever;
The crops of dandies bud, and bloom,
And die as fast as ever.
Now gilded youth loves cutty pipes,
And slang the worse for wearing:
It can't approach its prototypes
In taste, or tone, or bearing.

In Brummell's day of buckle shoes,
Lawn cravats, and roll collars,
They'd fight, and woo, and bet--and lose
Like gentlemen and scholars:
I like young men to go the pace,
I half forgive old Rapid;
These louts disgrace their name and race,--
So vicious and so vapid!

Worse times may come. Bon ton, indeed,
Will then be quite forgotten,
And all we much revere will speed
From ripe to worse than rotten;
Then grass will sprout between yon stones,
And owls will roost at Boodle's,
For Echo will hurl back the tones
Of screaming Yankee Doodles.

I love the haunts of old Cockaigne,
Where wit and wealth were squandered;
The halls that tell of hoop and train,
Where grace and rank have wandered;
Those halls where ladies fair and leal
First ventured to adore me!--
And something of the like I feel
For this old street before me.





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