Now fades each public building from the sight, As on her course the _Lily_ steamer holds, Till new St. Stephen’s rears its moderate height, Which many a tier of scaffolding infolds. Beneath those beams; those yet unfinished towers, At present echoing with the workman’s clang: Upon their legs, perchance, for weary hours, Shall Britain’s future Senators harangue. Full many a Whig of coldest heart serene, Shall broach his philosophic nonsense there; Full many a Tory, born abuse to screen, Shall waste his humbug on the midnight air. Some future DUNCOMBE, there, with dauntless breast, The tyrant of his diocese shall twit; Some mute, good-humoured BROUGHAM contented rest―― Some SIBTHORP, guiltless of his country’s wit. Mourn not the Houses burnt some years ago: No vain regrets the ruin’d pile requires. E’en from its dust a voice exclaims “Oh! oh!” Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. _Punch_, 1844. ――――:o:―――― ELEGY IN A LONDON THEATRE. The curtain falls, the signal all is o’er, The eager crowd along the lobby throng, The youngsters lean against the crowded door, Ogling the ladies as they pass along. The gas lamps fade, the foot-lights hide their heads, And not a soul beside myself is seen, Save where the lacquey dirty canvas spreads, The painted boxes from the dust to screen. Save that, in yonder gallery enshrined, Some ragged girl complains in angry tone Of such as, sitting in the seat behind, Had ta’en her shawl in preference to their own. There where those rugged planks uneven lie, There on those dirty boards――that darken’d stage Did Kean and Kemble fill the listener’s eye, And add a lustre to the poet’s page. But they are gone――and never, never more Shall prompter’s summons, or the tinkling bell, Or call boy crying at the green-room door, “The stage waits, gentlemen!” their dreams dispel. For them no more the coaches of the great Shall stop up Catherine Street――for them, alas! No more shall anxious crowds expectant wait, Or polish up the gilded opera glass. Oft did the vicious on their accents hang, Their power oft the stubborn heart hath bent, And, whilst the spacious house with plaudits rang, They sent the harden’d homewards to repent. There, in that empty box, perchance hath swell’d A heart with Romeo’s burning passion rife, Hands that “poor Yorick’s” skull might well have held, Or clutch’d at Macbeth’s visionary knife. But unto these the bright and glorious stage Full in their face its holy portals slamm’d, Harsh managers repressed their noble rage, And told them, ungenteelly, they’d be “_damned_.” Full many a pearl of purest ray serene The rugged oyster-shell doth hold inside, Full many a vot’ry of the tragic queen, The dingy offices of London hide.