LONDON AT THE BREAK OF MORNING IN THE SEASON. THROUGH the strange scenes of town, at early day, What motley groups presented to my eye, 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, And mock'd the madness of the beggar'd fool. Hide from the sun their man-degrading dress, 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, REV. F. HODGSON. VERSES WRITTEN ON A TOUR THROUGH WARWICKSHIRE. As through Warwickshire valleys I ramble along, tear! There walks the Spectator, and scatters around * 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 forms more than mortal unite in the dance. '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, 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 the fabulous earl and the terrible cow. And imagines, like love, all is reason that's rhyme- write. Now Guy, and now Dun! 'tis as bloody a work How I wish thy irregular splendour were mine! 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 |