The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid,
And the last words that dust to dust conveyed!
While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend,
Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend!
O, gone forever! take this long adieu,
And sleep in peace next thy loved Montague.

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Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown; Along the walls where speaking marbles show What worthies form the hallowed mould below: Proud names! who once the reins of empire held, In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled; Chief's graced with scars and prodigal of blood, Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood, Just men, by whom impartial laws were given, And saints, who taught and led the way to heaven. Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, Since their foundation came a nobler guest, Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed A fairer spirit or more welcome shade.

Thomas Tickell.

'T

CAMPBELL'S FUNERAL.1

IS well to see these accidental great, Noble by birth, or Fortune's favor blind, Gracing themselves in adding grace and state To the more noble eminence of mind,

And doing homage to a bard

Whose breast by Nature's gems was starred, Whose patent by the hand of God himself was signed.

While monarchs sleep, forgotten, unrevered,
Time trims the lamp of intellectual fame;
The builders of the pyramids, who reared
Mountains of stone, left none to tell their name.
Though Homer's tomb was never known,
A mausoleum of his own

Long as the world endures his greatness shall proclaim.

What lauding sepulchre does Campbell want?
'T is his to give, and not derive renown.
What monumental bronze or adamant,

Like his own deathless lays can hand him down?
Poets outlast their tombs: the bust
And statue soon revert to dust;

The dust they represent still wears the laurel crown.

The solid Abbey walls that seem time-proof,
Formed to await the final day of doom;

The clustered shafts and arch supported roof,

That now enshrine and guard our Campbell's tomb,

Become a ruined, shattered fane,

May fall and bury him again :

Yet still the bard shall live, his fame-wreath still shall

bloom.

Methought the monumental effigies

Of elder poets that were grouped around, Leaned from their pedestals with eager eyes,

To peer into the excavated ground

Where lay the gifted, good, and brave,
While earth from Kosciusko's grave

Fell on his coffin-plate with freedom-shrieking sound.

And over him the kindred dust was strewed

Of Poets' Corner. O misnomer strange! The poet's confine is the amplitude

Of the whole earth's illimitable range,

O'er which his spirit wings its flight,
Shedding an intellectual light,

A sun that never sets, a moon that knows no change.

Around his grave in radiant brotherhood,
As if to form a halo o'er his head,
Not few of England's master spirits stood,
Bards, artists, sages, reverently led
To wave each separating plea
Of sect, clime, party, and degree,

All honoring him on whom Nature all honors shed.

To me the humblest of the mourning band,

Who knew the bard through many a changeful year, It was a proud sad privilege to stand

Beside his grave and shed a parting tear.
Seven lustres had he been my friend,
Be that my plea when I suspend
This all-unworthy wreath on such a poet's bier.

Horace Smith.

T

London Streets.

WALKING THE STREETS OF LONDON.

HROUGH winter streets to steer your course aright,
How to walk clean by day and safe by night;

How jostling crowds with prudence to decline,
When to assert the wall and when resign,
I sing: thou, Trivia, goddess, aid my song,
Through spacious streets conduct thy bard along;
By thee transported, I securely stray
Where winding alleys lead the doubtful way;
The silent court and opening square explore,
And long perplexing lanes untrod before.
To pave thy realm, and smooth the broken ways,
Earth from her womb a flinty tribute pays:
For thee the sturdy pavior thumps the ground,
Whilst every stroke his laboring lungs resound;
For thee the scavenger bids kennels glide
Within their bounds, and heaps of dirt subside.
My youthful bosom burns with thirst of fame,
From the great theme to build a glorious name;
To tread in paths to ancient bards unknown,
And bind my temples with a civic crown:
But more my country's love demands my lays;
My country's be the profit, mine the praise!

When the black youth at chosen stands rejoice, And "Clean your shoes!" resounds from every voice;

When late their miry sides stage-coaches show,
And their stiff horses through the town move slow;
When all the Mall in leafy ruin lies,

And damsels first renew their oyster-cries,
Then let the prudent walker shoes provide,
Not of the Spanish or Morocco hide:

The wooden heel may raise the dancer's bound,
And with the scalloped top his step be crowned;
Let firm, well-hammered soles protect thy feet
Through freezing snows and rains and soaking sleet.
Should the big last extend the shoe too wide,
Each stone will wrench the unwary step aside;
The sudden turn may stretch the swelling vein,
Thy cracking joint unhinge or ankle sprain;
And, when too short the modish shoes are worn,
You'll judge the seasons by your shooting corn.

Nor should it prove thy less important care,
To chose a proper coat for winter's wear.
Now in thy trunk thy D'Oily habit fold,
The silken drugget ill can fence the cold;
The frieze's spongy nap is soaked with rain,
And showers soon drench the camblet's cockled grain;
True Witney broadcloth, with its shag unshorn,
Unpierced is in the lasting tempest worn:

Be this the horseman's fence, for who would wear
Amid the town the spoils of Russia's bear?
Within the roquelaure's clasp thy hands are pent,
Hands that, stretched forth, invading harms prevent.
Let the looped bavaroy the fop embrace,
Or his deep cloak bespattered o'er with lace.