_Richardson_ says the world will teem with crimes, And woe and misery pervade the state; For what can prosper in those hapless times, When _Good-luck_ is proscribed, and out of date? The _web_ of death encircles _J. D. Webb_, The common ruin on him too hath landed; Him, too, must reach this melancholy ebb, And all the fortunes of the _Strand_ be _stranded_. _Pidding_, who did his corner much enjoy, Says, while he contemplates the prospect dim, “How oft I’ve _hung_ out my gay blue-coat boy―― Now I must _hang_ myself instead of him!” Happily, next year, some friend shall say and weep, As up _Cornhill_ he takes his lonely way―― “Where are the _harvests_ which I used to _reap_, Beneath the sickle of each drawing day? “Ah! where is _Sivewright_? where is _Eyton_ now? Where are the placards, which so lately told The clustering congregation when and hew The thirty thousands were all shared and sold? “Where dwelt activity there reigneth gloom: My well-known friends have lost their public rank: The _Lottery_ has pass’d into the tomb, And left the world an universal _blank_.” From _The Literary Gazette_. ――――:o:―――― AN ELEGY, _Written in the King’s Bench Prison_. The turnkey rings the bell for shutting out, The visitor walks slowly to the gate; The debtor chum-ward hastes in idle rout, And leaves the Bench to darkness, me, and fate. Now fades the high-spiked wall upon the sight, And all the space a silent air assumes! Save where some drunkard from the Brace[12] takes flight, And drowsy converse lulls the distant rooms. Save that from yonder Strong Room,[13] close confined, Some noisy wight does to the night complain, Of Mister Jones, the marshal, who, unkind Has, by a week’s confinement, check’d his reign. Within those strong-built walls, down that parade, Where lie the stones all paved in order fair, Each in his narrow room by bailiffs laid, The new-made pris’ners o’er their caption swear. The gentle morning bustle of their trade, The ’prentice, from the garret overhead, The dapper shopman, or the busy maid, Will never here arouse them from their bed. For them no polish’d Rumfords here shall burn, Nor wife uxorious ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their dad’s return, Or climb his knees, the sugar-plums to share. Oft did the creditor to their promise yield, As often they that solemn promise broke; How jocund did they drive the duns afield! ’Till nick’d at last within the bailiff’s yoke! Let not ambition mock their heedless fate, And idly cry, their state might have been better; Nor grandeur hear with scorn while I relate The short insolvent annals of the debtor.