(D. Carey also published “Reign of Fancy, with Lyrical Tales,” 1804. “Craig Phadric; Visions of Sensibility, with Legendary Tales,” Printed at Inverness for the Author, 8vo., 1811. Carey was the son of a manufacturer in Arbroath, Forfarshire, where he was born in 1782. He edited _The Inverness Journal_ for five years, and died at Arbroath, October 4th, 1824.) ――――:o:―――― ELEGIAC STANZAS, _On returning at Day-break, through an Alley in London, from a Ball at Lady Dash’s_. The Watchman drawls the hour of dawning day, The breakfast booth is set with smoking tea, The dancers homeward wind their weary way, And leave the streets to morning and to me. Now brighter beams upon the pavement dart, Though yet a gen’ral silence holds the air, Save where some gard’ner drives his early cart, Or drowsy milkmen clank along the square: Save that, disguised with liquor and with paint, The fragile fair complains of some mishap, From rough patroles, who, stern and ungallant, Molest her chill and solitary nap. Beneath these humble roofs, these broken tiles, Blown from their lay’rs when April winds were high, On beds uncurtain’d, and in crowded files, This narrow alley’s lab’ring tenants lie. The pealing knocker at the pompous porch, The fretful gabble of the elbow’d guest, The clattering carriage, or the flaring torch, Has never robb’d them of their lowly rest. For them no dame shall plan the brilliant ball, Nor Mr. Speaker ply his evening care: No lacqueys bow before them through the hall, Nor scream their titles up the crowded stair. Oft does the dray their sturdy strength invite, Their harden’d hands oft haul the stubborn rope,―― How jocund do they shut their shops at night! How smirk their chins beneath the Sunday soap! Let not nice Nugent mock their useful toil, Their ill cut raiment, or their homely food, Nor the Black Dandy[9] hear with scornful smile, The early hours of that unpolish’d brood. The pomp of liv’ries and the whirl of wheels, And all that Hoby,[10] all that Dyde[11] e’er gave, Are random toys that Fortune blindly deals,―― Grave to the fool, but foolish to the grave. Nor you, ye fair, contemn their lowly doom, If fops for them no rapt’rous plaudits raise; While in the buzz of many a scented room, Your voice, your dancing swell the note of praise. Can animating reel, or melting waltz, Teach you to thread the giddier maze of life? Can D’Egville’s skill redeem one step when false? Or Cramer lull the jars of man and wife? Perhaps in yon dark garret may repose Eyes, of fair Castlereagh’s celestial fire; Hands that, like Congreve’s, had consumed our foes, Or swept, like Southey’s, o’er the laureat lyre;