Bopeep and his brethren to bear the brunt of the fray; an intolerable din of screaming, shouting servants, ostlers and helpers; and the barking of a kennel of curs, as if “the dogs of three parishes” had been congregated and let loose to swell the turmoil. “The sons of care are always sons of night.” Those to whom the world's beauteous garden is a cheerless desert hide their sorrows in its friendly obscurity. If in one quarter the shout of revelry is heard, as the sensualist reels from his bacchanalian banquet,--in another, the low moan of destitution and misery startles night's deep silence, as they retire to some bulk or doorway to seek that repose which seldom lights but “on lids unsullied with a tear.” We had parted with our merry companions, and were hastening homeward, when, passing by one of those unsightly pauper prison-houses that shame and deface our land, we beheld a solitary light flickering before a high narrow casement, the grated bars of which told a mournful tale, that the following melody, sang with heart-searching pathos, too truly confirmed:-- A wand'rer, tho' houseless and friendless I roam, Ah! stranger, I once knew the sweets of a home; The world promised fair, and its prospects were bright, My pillow was peace, and I woke to delight. Do you know what it is from loved kindred to part? The sting of the scorpion to feel in your heart? To hear the deep groan of an agonised sire? To see, broken-hearted, a mother expire? To hear bitter mockings an answer to prayer? Scorn pointing behind, and before you despair!-- To hunger a prey, and to passion a slave,-- No home but the outcast's, no rest but the grave! To feel your brain wander, as reason's faint beam Illumines the dark, frenzied, sorrowful dream; The present and past!--See! the moon she rides higher In mild tranquil beauty, and shoots sparks of fire!