n
the nosegay in his hand! I hear the crowd extolling his resolution and
intrepidity! What volleys of sighs are sent from the windows of Holborn,
that so comely a youth should be brought to disgrace! I see him at the
tree! the whole circle are in tears! even butchers weep!"--BEGGARS
OPERA.]

A living sea of eager human faces,
A thousand bosoms throbbing all as one,
Walls, windows, balconies, all sorts of places,
Holding their crowds of gazers to the sun:
Through the hushed groups low-buzzing murmurs run;
And on the air, with slow reluctant swell,
Comes the dull funeral-boom of old Sepulchre's bell.

Oh, joy in London now! in festal measure
Be spent the evening of this festive day!
For thee is opening now a high-strung pleasure;
Now, even now, in yonder press-yard they
Strike from his limbs the fetters loose away!
A little while, and he, the brave Duval,
Will issue forth, serene, to glad and greet you all.

"Why comes he not? Say, wherefore doth he tarry?"
Starts the inquiry loud from every tongue.
"Surely," they cry, "that tedious Ordinary
His tedious psalms must long ere this have sung,--
Tedious to him that's waiting to be hung!"
But hark! old Newgate's doors fly wide apart.
"He comes, he comes!" A thrill shoots through each gazer's heart.

Joined in the stunning cry ten thousand voices,
All Smithfield answered to the loud acclaim.
"He comes, he comes!" and every breast rejoices,
As down Snow Hill the shout tumultuous came,
Bearing to Holborn's crowd the welcome fame.
"He comes, he comes!" and each holds back his breath--
Some ribs are broke, and some few scores are crushed to death.

With step majestic to the cart advances
The dauntless Claude, and springs into his seat.
He feels that on him now are fixed the glances
Of many a Briton bold and maiden sweet,
Whose hearts responsive to his glories beat.
In him the honour of "The Road" is centred,
And all the hero's fire into his bosom entered.

His was the transport--his the exultation
Of Rome's great generals, when from afar,
Up to the Capitol, in the ovation,
They bore with them, in the triumphal car,
Rich gold and gems, the spoils of foreign war.
_Io Triumphe_! They forgot their clay.
E'en so Duval, who rode in glory on his way.

His laced cravat, his kids of purest yellow,
The many-tinted nosegay in his hand,
His large black eyes, so fiery, yet so mellow,
Like the old vintages of Spanish land,
Loc