My Lord now quits his venerable seat, The six clerk on his padlock turns the key, From business hurries to his snug retreat, And leaves vacation, and the town to me. Now all is hush’d, asleep the eye of care, And Lincoln’s Inn a solemn stillness holds, Save where the porter whistles o’er the square, Or Pompey barks, or basket woman scolds, Save that from yonder pump, and dirty stair, The moping shoe-black and the laundry-maid, Complain of such as from the town repair, And leave their little quarterage unpaid. In those dull chambers where old parchments lie, And useless drafts in many a mouldering heap, Each for parade to catch the client’s eye, Salkeld and Ventris in oblivion sleep. In these dead hours what now remains for me, Still to the stool and to the desk confined, Debarr’d from Autumn shades, and liberty Whose lips are soft as my Cleora’s kind. Hail, beauteous nymph! How does thy presence gild The brow of care, and mitigate my pains! With thee (such ecstacy thy beauties yield) Bondage is free, and hugs thy pleasing chains. Blest in thy love, sincerely I despise The quibble, warmly urged with many a frown, Hear each opinion of the learn’d and wise, Nor envy Cato’s wig, or Tully’s gown. W. R. From _The Mirror_. 1823. Part of this parody was quoted in _Doings in London_, 1828; and also in _The Mirror_, May 28, 1831. ――――:o:―――― The following parodies of _The Elegy_ may also be found in early volumes of _The Mirror_:―― LUCUBRATIONS IN AN APOTHECARY’S SHOP. The twilight curtains round the busy day, The sliding shutters close the tradesman’s shop, The street lamp now emits its useful ray, And homeward speeds the bustling Doctor Slop, &c. _The Mirror._ Vol. 4, p. 459. ―――― ELEGY. The pealing clock proclaims the close of day, The attorney’s clerk goes slowly to his tea; And mine begins to plod his weary way, And leave my rooms to solitude and me, &c. _The Mirror._ Vol. 5, p. 131. ――――:o:―――― ALAS! POOR FALLEN SIR FRANCIS![17] _Elegy written in Westminster Hall._ The Judges toll the knell of Burdett’s fame, The rabble-rout disperse with lack of glee; The counsel homeward plod just as they came, And leave the Hall to darkness and to me. Now fades each fairy prospect on my sight; All nature now appears to make a pause, Save where the wits the _Chronicle_ who write Weave drowsy paragraphs to patch my cause. Beneath these ancient walls, once vocal made By vote of thanks, which late I found so cheap, Indignant Justice bids my laurels fade, The dull co-partners of my folly weep.