Twas midnight - and the beam of Cynthia shone
In company with many a lovely star,
Steeping in silver the huge Babylon
Whose countless habitations stretch afar,
Plain, valley, hill, and river's bank upon,
And in whose mighty heart all interests jar!-
O sovereign city of a thousand towers,
What vice is cradled in thy princely bowers!

If thou would'st view fair London-town aright.
Survey her from the bridge of Waterloo;
And let the hour be at the morning's light.
When the sun's earliest rays have struggled through
The star-bespangled curtain of the night.
And when Aurora's locks are moist with dew
Then take thy stand upon that bridge, and see
London awake in all her majesty!

Then do her greatest features seem to crowd
 Down to the river's brink :- then does she raise
From off her brow the everlasting cloud,
(Thus with her veil the coquette archly plays)
And for a moment shows her features, proud
To catch the Rembrandt light of the sun's rays:-
Then may the eye of the beholder dwell
On steeple, column, dome, and pinnacle.

Yes - he may reckon temple, mart, and tower-
The old historic sites - the halls of kings -
The seats of art - the fortalice of power-
The ships that waft our commerce on their wings;-
All these commingle in that dawning;
And each into one common focus brings
 Some separate moral of life's scenes so true,
As all those objects form one point of view!

The ceaseless hum of the huge Babylon
Has known no silence for a thousand years;
Still does her tide of human life flow on,
Still is she racked with sorrows, hopes, and fears;
Still the sun sets, still morning dawns upon
Hearts full of anguish, eye-balls dimmed with tears;-
Still do the millions toil to bless the few-
And hideous Want stalks all her pathways through!

WHEN far away, my memory keeps in view,
    Unweariedly, the image of my wife;
This tribute of my gratitude is due
    To her who seems the angel of my life-
The guiding star that lead, me safely through
    The eddies of this world's unceasing strife;-
Hope's beacon, cheering ever from afar,
How beautiful art thou, my guiding star!

Our children have thy countenance, that beams
    With love for him who tells thy virtues now;-
Their eyes have caught the heavenly ray which gleams
    From thine athwart the clouds that shade my brow,
Like sunshine on a night of hideous dreams!-
    The first to wean me from despair art thou;
For all the endearing sentiments of life
Are summed up in the words Children and Wife

The mind, when in a desert stale, renews
    Its strength, if by Hope's purest manna fed; -
As drooping flowers revive beneath the dews
    Which April mornings bountifully shed.
Mohammed taught (let none the faith abuse)
    That echoes were the voices of the dead
Repeating, in a far-off realm of bliss.
The words of those they loved and left in this.

My well beloved, should'st thou pass hence away,
    Into another and a happier sphere,
Ere death has also closed my little day,
    And morn may wake no more on my career,-
"I love thee," are the words that I shall say
    From hour to hour, during my sojourn here,
That thou in other realms may'st still be found
Prepared to echo back the welcome sound.

I HAD a tender mother once.
    Whose eyes so sad and mild
Beamed tearfully yet kindly on
    Her little orphan child.
A father's care I never knew;
    But in that mother dear.
Was centred every thing to love,
    To cherish, and revere!

I loved her with that fervent love
    Which daughters only know;
And often o'er my little head
    Her bitter tears would flow.
Perhaps she knew that death approached
    To snatch her from my side;
And on one gloomy winter day
    This tender mother died.

They laid her in the pauper's ground,
    And hurried o'er the prayer
It nearly broke my heart to think
    That they should place her there.
And now It seems I see her still
    Within her snowy shroud;
And in the dark and silent night
    My spirit weeps aloud.

I know not how the years have passed
    Since my poor mother died;
But I too have an orphan girl,
    That grows up by my side.
O God! thou know'st I do not crave
    To eat the bread of sloth:
I labour hard both day and night,
    To earn enough for both!

But though I starve myself for her,
    Yet hunger wastes her form:-
My God! and must that darling child
    Soon feed the loathsome worm?
'Tis vain - for I can work no more -
    My eyes with toil are dim;
My fingers seem all paralyzed,
    And stiff is every limb!

And now there is but one resource;
    The pauper's dreaded doom!
To hasten to the workhouse, and
    There find a living tomb.
I know that they will separate
    My darling child from me;
And though twill break our hearts, yet both
    Must bow to that decree!

Henceforth our tears must fail apart.
    Nor flow, together more;
And from to-day our prayers may not
    Be mingled as before!
O God! is this the Christian creed,
    So merciful and mild?
The daughter from the mother snatched,
    The mother from her child!

Ah! we shall ne'er be blessed again
    Till death has closed our eyes.
And we meet in the pauper's ground
    Where my poor mother lies.-
Though sad this chamber, it is bright
    To what must be our doom;
The portal of the workhouse is
    The entrance of the tomb!

"Stooping over the ample grate,
    Where burnt an ounce of fuel,
That cheered not the gloom
    Of the workhouse room.
An aged and shivering female sate,
    Sipping a pint of gruel:
And as she sopped a morsel of bread
    In that liquid thin and poor.
With anguish she shook her aching head,
    And thought of the days that were o'er

"Through the deep mists of years gone by
    Her mental glances wandered;
And the warm blood ran
    To her features Wan;
And fire for a moment lighted her eye,
    As o'er the past she pondered.
[-310-] For she had once tripped the meadow green
    With a heart as blithe as May;
And she had been crowned the village-queen
    In times that were far away!

 She'd been the pride of parents dear.
    And plenty banished sorrow;
And her love she gave
    To a yeoman brave;
And a smiling offspring rose to cheer
    Hearts that feared not for the morrow
Oh! why should they fear? In the sweat of their brow
    They ate their daily bread;
And they thought, 'The earth will o'er yield as now
    The fruits whereon we're fed!'

"But when their hair grew silvery white,
    Sorrow their cot invaded,
And ravaged it then
    As armies of men
Sack the defenceless town by night:-
 Thus all Hope's blossoms faded!
From their little farm the stock was swept
  By the owner of their land;
And the very bed on which they slept,
    Was snatched by the bailiff's hand.

"One hope - one fond hope now was all
    Each tender heart dared cherish-
That they might remain
    Still linked by one chain,
And midst the sorrows that might befal,
    Together live or perish.
But Want drove them on to the workhouse gate;
    And when the door was pass'd
They found themselves doomed to separate-
    To separate at last.

"And he fell sick:- she prayed in vain
    To be where he was lying;
She poured forth her moan
    Unto hearts of stone;
Never admittance she could gain
    the room where he was dying!
Then into her brain the sad thoughts stole
    That brain with anguish reeling-
That the great ones, judging by their own soul.
    Think that paupers have no feeling.

"So, thus before the cheerless grate,
    Watching the flick'ring ember
She rocked to and fro,
    Her heart full of woe
For into that heart the arrow of fate
    Pierced like the cold of December.
And though she sapped a morsel of bread,
    She could not eat for crying;
Twas hard that she might not support the head
    Of her much-lov'd husband dying!

E was an Efter,* [*A thief who frequents theatres]  that went to the play;
F was a Fogle he knapped on his way;
G was a Gag, which he told to the beak;
H was a Hum-box,* [*Pulpit] where parish-prigs speak.
    CHORUS
I was an Ikey* [*A Jew fence : a receiver of stolen goods] with swag all encumbered;
J was a Jug, in whose cell he was lumbered;
K was a Kye-bosh,* [*1s. 6d.]   that paid for his treat;
L was a Leaf* [*The drop] that fell under his feet.
    CHORUS
M was a Magsman, frequenting Pall-Mall;
N was a Nose that turned chirp on his pal;
O was an Onion,* [* A watch seal] possessed by a swell;
P was a Pannie, done niblike and well.
    CHORUS.
Q was a Queer-screen, that served as a blind ;* [*Served to deceive the unwary]
R was a Reader,* [*Pocket book] with flimsies well lined;
S was a Smasher, so nutty and spry;
T was a Ticker,* [*Watch] just faked from a cly.
    CHORUS.
U was an Uptucker,* [*Jack Ketch] fly with the cord;
V was a Varnisher,* [*Utterer of false sovereigns] dressed like a lord;
Y was a Yoxter* [*A convict returned from transportation before his time] that eat caper sauce;* [*Hanged]
Z was a Ziff* [*Juvenile thief] who was flashed on the horse.* [*Privately whipped in prison]
    For we are rollicking chaps
    All smoking, singing, boosing:
    We care not for the traps,
    But pass the night carouslng.* [*This song is entirely original]

"THE Lucifer-match! the Lucifer-match!
    'Tis the weapon for us to wield.
How bonnily burns up rick and thatch.
    And the crop just housed from the field
The proud may oppress and the rich distress,
    And drive us from their door;-
But they cannot snatch the Lucifer-match
    From the hand of the desperate poor

"The purse proud squire and the tyrant peer
    May keep their Game Laws still;
And the very glance of the overseer
    May continue to freeze and kill.
The wealthy and great, and the chiefs of the state,
    May tyrannise more and more;-
But they cannot snatch the Lucifer-match
    From the hand of the desperate poor!

" 'Oh! give us bread!' is the piteous wail
    That is murmured far and wide;
And echo takes up and repeats the tale-
    But the rich man turns aside.
The Justice of Peace may send his Police
    To scour the country o'er;
But they cannot snatch the Lucifer-match
    From the hand of the desperate poor!

"Then, hurrah! hurrah! for the Lucifer-match;
     'Tis the weapon of despair.-
How bonnily blaze up barn and thatch-
    The poor man's revenge is there!
For the worm will turn on the feet that spurn-
    And surely a man is more ?-
Oh! none can e'er snatch the Lucifer match