_Glorious London! Leviathan of human greed; Palpitating hot-bed of iniquity and joy, Greek, Roman, Spanish, Saxon, Kelt, Scot, Pict, Norman and Dane Have swept over thee like winter storms; And the mighty Caesar, Julius of old, With a myriad of bucklered warriors And one hundred galleons of sailors Triple-oared mariners, defying wave and fate, Have ploughed the placid face of Father Thames, Startling the loud cry of hawk and bittern As his royal prows grated on thy strand, Or skimmed over the marshes of thy infancy. Yet, amid all the wrecks of human ambition Where Pagan, Jew, Buddhist, Turk and Christian Struggled for the mastery of gold and power, You still march forward, giant-like and brave, Facing the morning of progress and liberty, Carrying thy cross and crown to all lands-- And with thy grand flotilla, chartered by Neptune Remain mistress of all the seas, defiant-- The roar of thy cannon and drum beats Heard with pride and glory around the world! Sad, how sad, to think that the day will come When not a vestige of this wonderful mass Of human energy shall remain; Where the cry of the wolf, bat and bittern Shall only be heard, and Nature again Resume her rustic, splendid desolation! Cities older and far greater than this, Dreaming of everlasting endurance, Have been long since buried in desert sands, Or engulfed in the pitiless waves of ocean, Lost forever from the rusty records Of Time, the tyrant and tomb builder Of man, vain insect of a moment, Who promises himself immortality, And then disappears like the mist of mountains, Or wandering meteors that sparkle and darkle In the midnight of oblivion!_ We quickly descended from the steeple, passed by Buckingham Palace, Regent Park, British Museum, through Chancery Lane into Fleet street, by Ludgate Hill, under the shadow of old battered Saint Paul's Church on to the Devil's Tavern, near Blackfriars Bridge, where we found gay and comfortable lodgings for the night, it being twelve o'clock when we shook hands with Meg Mullen, the rubicund landlady. The Devil's Tavern was a resort for actors, authors, bohemians, lords and ladies, who did not retire early to their downy couches. The night we arrived the tavern was crowded, as the Actors' Annual Ball was in progress, and many fair women and brave men belated by Bacchus could not find their way home, and were compelled to remain all night and be cared for by the host of the Devil. I told "Meg" we were Stratford boys, come up to London to seek our fortune, and set the Thames afire with our genius.