_Regent Bridge_ was begun in 1816, and finished in 1819. The arch is semicircular, and fifty feet wide. At the north front it is forty-five feet in height, and at the south front sixty-four feet two inches, the difference being occasioned by the ground declining to the south. The roadway is formed by a number of reverse arches on each side. The great arch is ornamented on the south and north by two open arches, supported by elegant columns of the Corinthian order. The whole property purchased to open the communication to the city by this bridge cost 52,000l, and the building areas sold for the immense sum of 35,000l. The street along the bridge is called Waterloo-place, as it was founded in the year on which that memorable battle was fought. The engraving[1] is an interesting picture of classic beauty; and as the "approaches" and proposed "dry arches" to the New London Bridge are now becoming matters of speculative interest, we hope this entrance to our metropolis will ultimately present a similar display of architectural elegance. LONDON, with all her opulence, ought not to yield in comparison with any city in the world; and it is high time that the march of taste be quickened in this quarter. [1] from an exquisite lithograph by J. Goldicutt. * * * * * ON THE DEATH OF CARL MARIA VON WEBER. Weep, for the word is spoken-- Mourn, for the knell hath knoll'd-- The master chord is broken, And the master's hand is cold! Romance hath lost her minstrel, No more his magic strain Shall throw a sweeter spell around, The legends of Almaine. His fame had flown before him To many a foreign land, His lays are sung by every tongue, And harp'd by every hand! He came to cull fresh laurels, But fate was in their breath, And turn'd his march of triumph Into a dirge of death. O! all who knew him lov'd him, For with his mighty mind, He bore himself so meekly, His heart it was so kind! His wildly warbling melodies, The storms that round them roll, Are types of the simplicity And grandeur of his soul. Though years of ceaseless suffering Had worn him to a shade, So patient was his spirit, No wayward plaint he made. E'en death itself seem'd loath to scare His victim pure and mild; And stole upon him quietly As slumber o'er a child. Weep, for the word is spoken-- Mourn, for the knell hath knoll'd-- The master chord is broken, And the master's hand is cold! The master chord is broken, And the master's hand is cold! PLANCHE. * * * * * YOUNG NAPOLEON. _(For the Mirror.)_