We will now glance at the Poets' Corner, a spot haunted by sad and sweet associations. Here stands the massy and solemn-looking tomb of Chaucer, that "morning star" of poetry which first dawned through the long night of Egyptian darkness. He, the earliest child of English song, was the first bard interred within this great national mausoleum; and it now appears that the monument was erected soon after his death: there is an antique look about it which would leave a stranger to conclude that the tomb was almost as old as the Abbey itself. Gentle Spenser, author of the immortal "Faëry Queen," was the next heir to undying fame interred in this beautiful sanctuary; and Shakspeare and Jonson were no doubt mourners at that great funeral. Beaumont and Drayton were the next successors who sank into this silent city of the dead. "Rare Ben Jonson" soon followed; but he was buried in the northern aisle of the nave--it is supposed, very near to Killigrew's monument. Cowley, Dryden, Gay, Prior, and Addison, although the latter was buried in another part of the Abbey, may be numbered among the illustrious dead who sleep their long sleep within those ancient walls. Many other monuments stand here erected to the memory of our celebrated poets, whose remains lie far and wide apart--some in the beautiful churches of London, others in the quiet seclusion of the country. The author of the "Pleasures of Hope," whose mortal part we followed to the shallow grave which was opened near the front of Chaucer's tomb, was the last true poet consigned to his "narrow cell" in this great graveyard of genius. Grand and solemn were the tones which the mighty organ poured out amid that listening silence--sounds which seemed more allied to heaven than earth; echoes that rolled on, then died away amid the shadowy crypts and pillared recesses, sounding as if the voices of the shrouded dead had found utterance, and were welcoming home another immortal spirit. Never was the funeral service more beautifully or feelingly read than on that occasion, by a brother poet. And that old Jerusalem Chamber in which we assembled, with its ancient tapestry, is itself a history. Here the great have, after death, lain in state; and the "props and pillars" of the nation have here assembled to make war or peace; and here also, stretched upon a pallet before the fire, Henry IV. died: the portrait of the ill-starred Richard II. hangs in this very chamber where Bolingbroke expired.