Thy founder’s[C] statue rears its head amid the scatter’d heap, And had the marble life, it might amid the ruin weep; While undisturb’d still stands erect the Second Charles[D] alone, Who, where yon centre pillar rests, first laid thy structure’s stone. Thy well-worn pavement echoes not with hasty footsteps’ tread Of merchants met, of ev’ry clime, by eager traffic led; Deserted now thy crowded walks, by Frank, Gaul, Turk, and Jew, And Muscovite, and Hollander, and Indian’s swarthy hue! Th’ accustom’d bell gives tongue no more from out its iron throat, To summon groups of barterers, with loud and stunning note, To hasten from the Babel scene ere massy gates they close, And leave anon the echoing roof to stillness and repose. Farewell, thou once fam’d edifice! whose grandeur now is flown; We mourn thy drear deserted walls, thy sceptred kings o’erthrown; Thy mournful dirge was chimed[E] by thee, upon that fatal night, When thou, a burning, blazing pile, fell on the sick’ning sight! LINES, ON HEARING OF AN INFANT, DURING WEANING, BEING FOUND IN ITS NURSERY SLEEPING ON ITS MOTHER’S PICTURE. O! that I could sweet speech, or utterance, give To lips of thine, dear infant--words to live; To tell of all that throbbed thy gentle heart, Whose tender grief no language can impart: How heard to call in vain, “Sweet mother, dear!” In melting tones that told she was not near; Her accents came not, with its soothing voice To glad thy spirit, and thine ear rejoice, And dissipate the sadness on that face, Or kiss that cheek, and give the fond embrace. Methinks I see thee, on thy nursery-floor, Pleased with each toy and plaything as before, Yet ever and anon a tear would stray, Her form remembered, in its childish play; Baulked in its hopes, with sad half-pouting look, That spoke of sorrow young, and hard to brook, Whose inward thought and lisping tongue would say, “Why, mother dear, ah! why art thou away?” Then for a time, with glistening tears still wet, Renew glad sports, maternal smiles forget; Ah! yes I see thee, lovely sleeping boy, Tired with the pastime of each headless toy, With circling arms, of dimpled roundness seen, As though thou didst on her dear bosom lean, Thy mother’s “Semblance” in the nursery found, Clasping it closely in affection round. Imaged in sleep (for childhood hath its dream), Perchance of her, was had a passing gleam, Or felt caresses of a parent’s love, Nestling in arms of fondness, like the dove, And on those lips sweet kisses soft imprest, Whose smiles beguiled thee, and whose love carest; These floated gently, vision’s dream of flowers, That came to vanish with awakening hours, While absence caused fresh poignant grief renew, The loss deep felt, ah! felt, dear child, by you;