Why does Britannia bend with pensive mien, And throbbing bosom o'er that sable bier, To which yon melancholy group is seen In mute affliction slowly drawing near, Whilst weeping genius, pointing to the sky, In silent anguish heaves a plaintive sigh? She seems to take a lingering last farewell, As down her cheek the pearly teardrops flow, Of some lamented spirit she lov'd well, By Fate's inexorable shaft laid low; And thus half broken-hearted to complain "When shall we look upon thy like again!" Poor drooping maid--she mourns the doom of one, Whom at a time like this she ill can spare,-- Her talented and patriotic son, Whom art could not deceive, nor vice ensnare, To truth and sacred liberty allied, His country's hope, her honour and her pride! Yes--he is gone, whose energetic mind Upheld the pillars of a mighty state; Whose wisdom, worth, and eloquence, combin'd, Earn'd the just tribute of the good and great, Ensur'd a deathless wreath for coming days-- The poor man's blessing, and the rich one's praise! Relentless Death!--could _no_ one else suffice? No less invaluable prize be found? But must _he_ fall a noble sacrifice And early victim to thy fatal wound! Thou stern and merciless destroyer, say, Why didst thou blight his brief but glorious day? It is not Albion only who deplores.-- All sympathising Europe wails his doom; And bright-eyed Freedom hastes from Western shores To drop a grateful tear upon his tomb; And fondly hovering round his slumbering shade Guards the lorn spot where her best friend is laid. Now, stay my muse--for worthier hands than thine Will twine the laurel round his hallow'd bust; And raise in happier and more polish'd line A splendid trophy to his sacred dust; When thy untaught and unpretending lay Shall be forgotten and have pass'd away. Yet, ere thy chords are mute, oh, once again My trembling lyre let me touch thy string! And in a humble, but a heartfelt strain Of him, the much-lov'd child of Genius sing; And place this simple, unaffected verse, With moisten'd eye upon his plumed hearse:-- "If all that virtue, all that fame holds dear, Deserve a tribute--stop and pay it _here!_" J.E.S. * * * * * THE SKETCH BOOK. No. XLV. * * * * * BEHIND THE SCENES; OR, A BREAKFAST IN NEWGATE. Returning from the country, I found myself in the Old Bailey, shortly after seven in the morning. I had some difficulty in making my way through the crowd there assembled, which I instantly perceived, from the platform erected in front of Newgate, had been brought together to witness one of those mournful exhibitions which the administration of criminal justice so frequently furnishes in this immense metropolis.