ST. MARTIN'S LANE winds up the hill, And trends a devious way; I walk therein amid the din Of busy London day: I walk where wealth and squalor meet, And think upon a time When others trod this saintly sod, And heard St. Martin's chime. But when those solemn bells invoke The midnight's slumbrous grace, The ghosts of men come back again To haunt that curious place: The ghosts of sages, poets, wits, Come back in goodly train; And all night long, with mirth and song, They walk St. Martin's Lane. There's Jerrold paired with Thackeray, Maginn and Thomas Moore, And here and there and everywhere Fraserians by the score; And one wee ghost that climbs the hill Is welcomed with a shout,-- No king could be revered as he,-- The _padre_, Father Prout! They banter up and down the street, And clamor at the door Of yonder inn, which once has been The scene of mirth galore: 'Tis now a lonely, musty shell, Deserted, like to fall; And Echo mocks their ghostly knocks, And iterates their call. Come back, thou ghost of ruddy host, From Pluto's misty shore; Renew to-night the keen delight Of by-gone years once more; Brew for this merry, motley horde, And serve the steaming cheer; And grant that I may lurk hard by, To see the mirth, and hear. Ah, me! I dream what things may seem To others childish vain, And yet at night 'tis my delight To walk St. Martin's Lane; For, in the light of other days, I walk with those I love, And all the time St. Martin's chime Makes piteous moan above. THE SINGING IN GOD'S ACRE. OUT yonder in the moonlight, wherein God's Acre lies, Go angels walking to and fro, singing their lullabies. Their radiant wings are folded, and their eyes are bended low, As they sing among the beds whereon the flowers delight to grow,-- "Sleep, oh, sleep! The Shepherd guardeth His sheep. Fast speedeth the night away, Soon cometh the glorious day; Sleep, weary ones, while ye may,-- Sleep, oh, sleep!" The flowers within God's Acre see that fair and wondrous sight, And hear the angels singing to the sleepers through the night; And, lo! throughout the hours of day those gentle flowers prolong The music of the angels in that tender slumber-song,--