ks clustering o'er a brow of high command,
Subdue all hearts; and, as up Holborn's steep
Toils the slow car of death, e'en cruel butchers weep.

He saw it, but he heeded not. His story,
He knew, was graven on the page of Time.
Tyburn to him was as a field of glory,
Where he must stoop to death his head sublime,
Hymned in full many an elegiac rhyme.
He left his deeds behind him, and his name--
For he, like Caesar, had lived long enough for fame.

He quailed not, save when, as he raised the chalice,--
St Giles's bowl,--filled with the mildest ale,
To pledge the crowd, on her--his beauteous Alice--
His eye alighted, and his cheek grew pale.
She, whose sweet breath was like the spicy gale,
She, whom he fondly deemed his own dear girl,
Stood with a tall dragoon, drinking long draughts of purl.

He bit his lip--it quivered but a moment--
Then passed his hand across his flushing brows:
He could have spared so forcible a comment
Upon the constancy of woman's vows.
One short sharp pang his hero-soul allows;
But in the bowl he drowned the stinging pain,
And on his pilgrim course went calmly forth again.

A princely group of England's noble daughters
Stood in a balcony suffused with grief,
Diffusing fragrance round them, of strong waters,
And waving many a snowy handkerchief;
Then glowed the prince of highwayman and thief!
His soul was touched with a seraphic gleam--
That woman could be false was but a mocking dream.

And now, his bright career of triumph ended,
His chariot stood beneath the triple tree.
The law's grim finisher to its boughs ascended,
And fixed the hempen bandages, while he
Bowed to the throng, then bade the cart go free.
The car rolled on, and left him dangling there,
Like famed Mohammed's tomb, uphung midway in air.

As droops the cup of the surcharged lily
Beneath the buffets of the surly storm,
Or the soft petals of the daffodilly,
When Sirius is uncomfortably warm,
So drooped his head upon his manly form,
While floated in the breeze his tresses brown.
He hung the stated time, and then they cut him down.

With soft and tender care the trainbands bore him,
Just as they found him, nightcap, robe, and all,
And placed this neat though plain inscription o'er him,
Among the atomies in Surgeons' Hall:
"THESE ARE THE BONES OF THE RENOWNED DUVAL!"
There still they tell us, from their glassy case,
He was the last, the best of all that noble race!

Eas