| |
|
'Twas on a holy Thursday, their
innocent faces clean,
The children walking two and two in red and blue and
green:
Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white
as snow,
Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames
waters flow.
O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London
town!
Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their
own.
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of
lambs,
Thousands of little boys and girls raising their
innocent hands.
Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of
song,
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven
among:
Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the
poor.
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your
door.
|
|
|
