LONDON

AT THE BREAK OF MORNING IN THE SEASON.

THROUGH the strange scenes of town, at early day,
Sad as I took my solitary way,

What motley groups presented to my eye,
Vice in its varied ranks of low and high!

Forced from his pallet, with unwilling feet Here crept the labourer down the silent street; Stopp'd at his favourite house, where purl and gin The day of toil and drunkenness begin;

Or temperate sipp'd, at Nancy's noted stand,
His black tea breakfast from her lily hand.
Here, reeling homeward from the tavern drunk,
Or filthier sojourn of his faithless punk,
Beneath a vast cock'd hat a little beau
At Brooks's call'd, to lose his last rouleau.
Here the proud gambler in his silken chair,
With purse replenish'd, quaff'd the morning air;
Return'd from ruining some easy tool,

And mock'd the madness of the beggar'd fool.
Where yon late torch emits a dying fire,
See slinking dominos to bed retire:

Hide from the sun their man-degrading dress,
Blush if they could, and feel a feign'd distress.
While masks more impudent all shame forswear,
And ape the character they ill can bear.

See, dashing brightly from yon western street, With lamps that laughingly the morning meet, The paint broad glaring in each hackney'd face, The sole unmarried daughter and her grace.

But lo! surrounding thick the water's side, And gazing anxious on the gloomy tide,

A crowd is seen with earnest air to stand,
While, dreadful sight! dragg'd breathless to the
A woman's corse, a lovely woman's lies : [land
Stiff the cold limbs, and fix'd the glazing eyes.
-Those limbs are yet in soft proportion fair,
Blue that dead eye, and beauty yet is there.
Strange and afflicting contrast! mirth around,
And fashion shines, the streets with revel sound,
While in yon dark canal the wretch has sought
A long forgetfulness of guilty thought.

REV. F. HODGSON.

VERSES

WRITTEN ON A TOUR THROUGH WARWICKSHIRE.

As through Warwickshire valleys I ramble along,
And amuse the lone hour with unmetrical song,
How sacred does Addison's dwelling* appear
To thine eye, Recollection, through Gratitude's

tear!

There walks the Spectator, and scatters around
Inspiration and awe o'er the classical ground:
Still, still I behold in his favourite grove
The genius of Wisdom and Piety rove:
On his path blooming virgins in silence attend,
And receive the mild laws of their father and friend.
He first their fair bosoms with learning refined,
And added to beauty the charms of the mind.
O, sacred for ever be Addison's name,
And his statue unmoved from the temple of fame!
For to him his own England confesses a debt
Which her honour is lost when her children forget.

* At Bilston, near Rugby.

Now sadly to Kenilworth onward I roam, And survey the fallen grandeur of Leycester's proud home;

Here peerless Elizabeth deign'd to retreat,
And majesty slumber'd in Luxury's seat.
Still, still on the lake the bright galleys are row'd,
And the lady still reigns in her fairy abode.
Groups of nymphs through the trees to light mea-
sure advance,

And forms more than mortal unite in the dance.
Hark! hark! the full chorus swells high in the hall,
And echo awakes on the turreted wall. [band,

'Bold knights and fair dames,' in a glittering Bow low to the queen of their fortunate land; While, perchance, the fond soldier, retiring apart, Pays homage more true to the queen of his heart. Through the court love and honour alternately

sway,

And Glory looks pleased at the chivalrous day. Ah no! it is pass'd-and a dark shadow lours (The dark shadow of time) on these mouldering

towers.

All is silent-Oh Kenilworth! well may thy doom Remind haughty man of his path to the tomb: Thou too hast been young, and sublime in thy pride Hast the loud-rattling storm of the winter defied; But gone is thy vigour, and scarce canst thou save The remembrance of pomp from the ruinous grave.

Not thus, lofty Warwick, declines thy gray head, Not thus, prince of castles, thy beauty has fled; Unimpair'd, only mellow'd by years, how serene Thy battlements smile o'er the valley of green, While thy soft-flowing Avon refreshes the scene. Yield, royalty's mansion, yield, Windsor, the prize, And bid thy shamed turrets less haughtily rise.

Thy turrets at least, which, unworthy of thee,
Erected by modern improvement we see,

And imagine (so frail and so feeble they look) That the mason has here been exchanged for the cook,

Whose bulwarks of pie-crust invitingly stand,
To attract the nice taste of this elegant land.
As I climb this bold tower I am borne, God
knows how,

To the fabulous earl and the terrible cow.
Yes, whether the whirlwind of memory flies
On pinions reverted, with back-glancing eyes,
To the field where famed Guy and the pestilent
beast
[least-
Fought by Coventry clock half an hour at the
Or whether wild fancy annihilates time,

And imagines, like love, all is reason that's rhyme-
On my life, the fierce combat appears in full sight,
And I hear their short breath as at Warwick I

write.

Now Guy, and now Dun! 'tis as bloody a work
As if Cow was a Christian, and Guy was a Turk.
But away with vain story-my annals I'll crown
With the king-setter-up and the king-puller-down.
Oh, glorious offender! oh, traitor divine!

How I wish thy irregular splendour were mine!
Thy power unexampled, that taught silly kings
When robb'd of the sceptre they are ludicrous
things.
[tiful, wild,
Then with blaze short but dazzling, though beau-
Fortune's heir, glory's toy, generosity's child,
Darting meteorlike wonder, I'd nobly forgive
The low offspring of pride, and permit them to live;
Though harmless in heat, yet transcendent in light,
Meet the world as it wanders, and bid it be right.

But hold! in yon valley what magical form Waves its wand, and arouses the breath of the storm?

Through the trees hollow murmurs presageful arise, And the chill evening blast rushes swift through the skies.

What beautiful woodnymph approaches the seer Pale with horror?-The roar of the ocean I hear, The cries of the shipwreck'd, the terrible sound Of the bellowing thunder that echoes around— All is hush'd! and the sailors, brought safe to the land,

In astonishment range o'er the wonderful strand. Through the wild midnight track of the comfortless heath

The king and the father advances to deathThough loud blows the wind o'er the heart-chilling scene,

A daughter's neglect is more piercingly keen. Who is she newly laid in the sepulchre's gloom? Who scatters sweet flowers on his truelove's sad

tomb?

Alas! she awakes-but awakes not to blissHer lord has embraced her, and died with the kiss. Crown'd with fanciful garlands, and chanting wild lays,

dream.

What maid by yon willow-fringed rivulet strays? Ah! headlong she plunges at once in the stream, And breaks the short thread of life's sorrowful [appear, But now in vast crowds the strange shadows And a voice full of melody steals on my earLight fairies trip over the green, and around Kings, warriors, magicians seem fix'd by the

sound