How vain are all your triumphs past, For this set-to will be your last. Two prize-fighters have met on Epsom Downs to decide the championship of the 'Ring,' with umpires, bottle-holders, and all the paraphernalia of the 'fancy.' In the artist's picture one of the combatants has received a fatal blow, and he is stretched lifeless on the turf. The grim figure of Death, the bony personification which permeates the series, has suddenly joined the sport, and he is squaring up to the scared victor in a scientific and confident attitude; the horrified champion is unconsciously raising his strong arms to guard himself against this new opponent, though justly disinclined to continue such an unequal contest. Impressed by the fatal ending of the man he has beaten the winner has conscientiously registered a vow, on the spur of the moment, 'to never fight again.' But Death appear'd! Once more, my friend, Yes, one round more, and all will end. The crowds of fashionable and sporting spectators are all dispersing at the top of their speed, running and driving away from this unexpected opponent, and turning their backs on this involuntary renewal of their favourite diversion. Confusion reign'd throughout the scene, And the crowds hurried from the Green. The roads were quickly covered o'er With chaise and pair and chaise and four, While curricles and gigs display The rapid fury of their way, And many a downfall grac'd the day. As _Playgame_ claim'd a flying bet, His new-built tilb'ry was o'erset: Lord Gammon's barouche met its fate In contact with a turnpike-gate; And _Ned Fly's_ gig, that hurried after, Was plung'd into a pond of water. But, would it not be vain to tell The various chances that befel Horsemen and footmen who that day From _Death's_ dread challenge ran away? For when th' affrighted crowd was gone, And DEATH and HARRY were alone, The spectre hasten'd to propose That they should forthwith come to blows; But Harry thought it right to say, 'As no one's here to see fair play, I'll try your strength another day. Besides, I know not how you're made, I look for substance, you're a Shade, A bag of bones; for aught I know, Old _Broughton_, from the shades below: And though alive I should not dread His power, I war not with the dead.' Thus keeping well his guard he spoke, When grinning Death put in a stroke Which did the short-liv'd round decide, And _Sheffield Harry_, in his pride, Was laid by _Tom from London's_ side. Plate 26. _The Vision of Skulls. (In the Catacombs.)_ As it appears, though dead so long, Each skull is found to have a tongue.