The clock strikes Five! The Sheriffs arrive, And the crowd is so great that the street seems alive; But Sir Carnaby Jenks Blinks, and winks, A candle burns down in the socket, and stinks. Lieutenant Tregooze Is dreaming of Jews, And acceptances all the bill-brokers refuse; My Lord Tomnoddy Has drunk all his toddy, And just as the dawn is beginning to peep, The whole of the party are fast asleep. Sweetly, oh! sweetly, the morning breaks, With roseate streaks, Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks; Seem'd as that mild and clear blue sky Smiled upon all things far and nigh, On all--save the wretch condemn'd to die! Alack! that ever so fair a Sun As that which its course has now begun, Should rise on such a scene of misery!-- Should gild with rays so light and free That dismal, dark-frowning Gallows-tree! And hark!--a sound comes, big with fate; The clock from St. Sepulchre's tower strikes--Eight!-- List to that low funereal bell: It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell!-- And see!--from forth that opening door They come--HE steps that threshold o'er Who never shall tread upon threshold more! --God! 'tis a fearsome thing to see That pale wan man's mute agony,-- The glare of that wild, despairing eye, Now bent on the crowd, now turn'd to the sky, As though 'twere scanning, in doubt and in fear, The path of the Spirit's unknown career; Those pinion'd arms, those hands that ne'er Shall be lifted again,--not even in prayer; That heaving chest!--Enough--'tis done! The bolt has fallen!--the spirit is gone-- For weal or for woe is known but to One! --Oh! 'twas a fearsome sight!--Ah me! A deed to shudder at,--not to see. Again that clock! 'tis time, 'tis time! The hour is past:--with its earliest chime The cord is severed, the lifeless clay By "dungeon villains" is borne away: Nine!--'twas the last concluding stroke! And then--my Lord Tomnoddy awoke! And Tregooze and Sir Carnaby Jenks arose, And Captain M'Fuze, with the black on his nose: And they stared at each other, as much as to say, "Hollo! Hollo! Here's a rum Go! Why, Captain!--my Lord!--Here's the devil to pay! The fellow's been cut down and taken away!-- What's to be done? We've miss'd all the fun!-- Why, they'll laugh at and quiz us all over the town, We are all of us done so uncommonly brown!" What _was_ to be done?--'twas perfectly plain That they could not well hang the man over again: What _was_ to be done?--The man was dead! Nought _could_ be done--nought could be said; So--my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed! * * * * * The following communication will speak for itself:-- "On their own actions modest men are dumb!" SOME ACCOUNT OF A NEW PLAY. IN A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER-IN-LAW, LIEUT. SEAFORTH, H.P., LATE OF THE HON. E.I.C.'S 2ND REGT. OF BOMBAY FENCIBLES.