I had now leisure to look round me. The bell had not yet chimed: passengers were dropping in. Carriages were still rolling down to the landing-place, laden with mothers and daughters, lapdogs and bandboxes, innumerable. The surrounding scenery came, as the describers say, "in all its power on my eyes."--St Magnus, built by Sir Christopher Wren, as dingy and massive as if it had been built by Roderic the Goth; St Olave's, rising from its ruins, as fresh as a fairy palace of gingerbread; the Shades, where men drink wine, as Bacchus did, from the bunghole; the Bridge of Bridges, clambered over and crowded with spectators as thick as hiving bees! But--prose was never made for such things. I must be Pindaric. LONDON BRIDGE. _"My native land, good-night!"_ Adieu, adieu, thou huge, high bridge A long and glad adieu! I see above thy stony ridge A most ill-favour'd crew. The earth displays no dingier sight; I bid the whole--Good-night, good-night! There, hang between me and the sky She who doth oysters sell, The youth who parboil'd shrimps doth cry, The shoeless beau and belle, Blue-apron'd butchers, bakers white, Creation's lords!--Good-night, good-night! Some climb along the slippery wall, Through balustrades some stare, One wonders what has perch'd them all Five hundred feet in air. The Thames below flows, ready quite To break their fall.--Good-night, good-night! What visions fill my parting eyes! St Magnus, thy grim tower, _Almost_ as black as London skies! The Shades, which are no bower; St Olave's, on its new-built site, In flaming brick.--Good-night, good-night! The rope's thrown off, the paddles move, We leave the bridge behind; Beat tide below, and cloud above;-- Asylums for the blind, Schools, storehouses, fly left and right; Docks, locks, and blocks--Good-night, good-night! In distance fifty steeples dance. St Catherine's dashes by, The Customhouse scarce gets a glance, The sounds of Bowbell die. With charger's speed, or arrow's flight, We steam along.--Good-night, good-night! The Tower seems whirling in a waltz, As on we rush and roar. Where impious man makes Cheltenham salts, We shave the sullen shore; Putting the wherries all in fright, Swamping a few.--Good-night, good-night! We brave the perils of the Pool; Pass colliers chain'd in rows; See coalheavers, as black and cool As negroes without clothes, Each bouncing, like an opera sprite, Stript to the skin.--Good-night, good-night! And now I glance along the deck Our own live-stock to view-- Some matrons, much in fear of wreck; Some lovers, two by two; Some sharpers, come the clowns to bite; Some plump John Bulls.--Good-night, good-night!