<h2><SPAN name="page66"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>ARCADES AMBO.</h2>
<p class="poetry"> <span class="smcap">Why</span> are ye wandering aye ’twixt porch
and porch,<br/>
Thou and thy fellow—when the
pale stars fade<br/>
At dawn, and when the glowworm lights her torch,<br/>
O Beadle of the Burlington
Arcade?<br/>
—Who asketh why the
Beautiful was made?<br/>
A wan cloud drifting o’er the waste of
blue,<br/>
The thistledown that floats above
the glade,<br/>
The lilac-blooms of April—fair to view,<br/>
And naught but fair are these; and such, I ween, are you.</p>
<p class="poetry"> <SPAN name="page67"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>Yes, ye are beautiful. The
young street boys<br/>
Joy in your beauty. Are ye
there to bar<br/>
Their pathway to that paradise of toys,<br/>
Ribbons and rings?
Who’ll blame ye if ye are?<br/>
Surely no shrill and clattering
crowd should mar<br/>
The dim aisle’s stillness, where in
noon’s mid-glow<br/>
Trip fair-hair’d girls to
boot-shop or bazaar;<br/>
Where, at soft eve, serenely to and fro<br/>
The sweet boy-graduates walk, nor deem the pastime slow.</p>
<p class="poetry"> And O! forgive me, Beadles,
if I paid<br/>
Scant tribute to your worth, when
first ye stood<br/>
Before me robed in broadcloth and brocade<br/>
<SPAN name="page68"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>And all the nameless grace of
Beadlehood!<br/>
I would not smile at ye—if
smile I could<br/>
Now as erewhile, ere I had learn’d to sigh:<br/>
Ah, no! I know ye beautiful
and good,<br/>
And evermore will pause as I pass by,<br/>
And gaze, and gazing think, how base a thing am I.</p>
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