――――:o:―――― ELEGY. (_For the “Mirror,”_ 1825.) The pealing clock proclaims the close of day, Th’ attorney’s clerk goes slowly to his tea; And mine begins to plod his weary way, And leave my rooms to solitude and me. Now fades the glitt’ring river on my sight, And all the air a solemn stillness feels; Save when some rake wheels round his rapid flight, And drowsy watchmen follow at his heels. Save, that from yonder darkly shaded tow’r, The moping sage does solemnly complain Of such, as wandering near his lonely door, Molest his quiet, unassuming reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that old tree’s shade, Where ancient seats in many a mould’ring heap Spread out, where in repose you may be laid, Most sweetly to enjoy the balm of sleep. Whilst the mild beams which ev’ning does adorn, The gay young student laughing at your head; The Postman’s bell, or th’ echoing horn, Rouse you no longer from your lowly bed. For you, the blazing hearth ne’er does burn; Or, busy housewife ply her ev’ning care, Or children run to lisp their sire’s return, And climb your knees the envied kiss to share. But still thy juniors to thy learning yield, When you put on the stately law peruke, To prove their arguments are all afield And make them bow at your hard stroke. * * * * * Yet do not think thy wig so sprucely deck’d, Will ne’er entice a brief that’s straying by: Whose strange and uncouth words its nonsense do protect And for it gain the tribute of a sigh. Thy name, thy years, thy thin and wrinkled face, Insure success: thy fame will then supply A stream of briefs, your fortune to replace, And wealth, and peace, await you ere you die. And you, whom dumb forgetfulness and care, T’anxiety and bitter want resigned; Will hail with joyous look and altered air Th’ increasing strength and vigour of your mind. * * * * * ELEGY WRITTEN IN A TOWN CHURCH YARD. The church-bells peal the message――“Come and pray!” The gay-dressed crowd appear, to bend the knee, The shabby, poor man turns another way And leaves the church to Dives and to me. Now fades the noisy stir of weekday sights, And all around a Sabbath stillness dwells, Save where a doctor from his trap alights, And merry tinklings sound from tramcar bells; Save that, as if to make display of power, An army howls, while marching to the strains Of noisy bands, regardless of Nott-Bower, And blocks the passage of our streets and lanes. Beneath those railway lines that man hath made, Where slabs lie prone upon the embankment’s heap, Each sacrificed to compensation paid, Our Leeds forefathers down by Kirkgate sleep.