--
All sympathising Europe wails his doom;
And bright-eyed Freedom hastes from Western shores
To drop a grateful tear upon his tomb;
And fondly hovering round his slumbering shade
Guards the lorn spot where her best friend is laid.
Now, stay my muse--for worthier hands than thine
Will twine the laurel round his hallow'd bust;
And raise in happier and more polish'd line
A splendid trophy to his sacred dust;
When thy untaught and unpretending lay
Shall be forgotten and have pass'd away.
Yet, ere thy chords are mute, oh, once again
My trembling lyre let me touch thy string!
And in a humble, but a heartfelt strain
Of him, the much-lov'd child of Genius sing;
And place this simple, unaffected verse,
With moisten'd eye upon his plumed hearse:--
"If all that virtue, all that fame holds dear,
Deserve a tribute--stop and pay it _here!_"
J.E.S.
* * * * *
THE SKETCH BOOK.
No. XLV.
* * * * *
BEHIND THE SCENES; OR, A BREAKFAST IN NEWGATE.
Returning from the country, I found myself in the Old Bailey, shortly
after seven in the morning. I had some difficulty in making my way through
the crowd there assembled, which I instantly perceived, from the platform
erected in front of Newgate, had been brought together to witness one of
those mournful exhibitions which the administration of criminal justice so
frequently furnishes in this immense metropolis.
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