orld with London in its lap?
Mogg's map.
The Thames that ebbs and flows in its broad channel?
A _tidy_ kennel!
The bridges stretching from its banks?
Stone planks.
Oh, me! Hence could I read an admonition
To mad Ambition!
But that he would not listen to my call,
Though I should stand upon the cross, and _ball_!"

We can hardly close our account of St. Paul's without referring to that
most beautiful and touching of all London sights, the anniversary of the
charity schools on the first Thursday in June. About 8,000 children are
generally present, ranged in a vast amphitheatre under the dome. Blake,
the true but unrecognised predecessor of Wordsworth, has written an
exquisite little poem on the scene, and well it deserves it. Such
nosegays of little rosy faces can be seen on no other day. Very grand
and overwhelming are the beadles of St. Mary Axe and St. Margaret Moses
on this tremendous morning, and no young ensign ever bore his colours
prouder than do these good-natured dignitaries their maces, staves, and
ponderous badges. In endless ranks pour in the children, clothed in all
sorts of quaint dresses. Boys in the knee-breeches of Hogarth's
school-days, bearing glittering pewter badges on their coats; girls in
blue and orange, with quaint little mob-caps white as snow, and long
white gloves covering all their little arms. See, at a given signal of
an extraordinary fugleman, how they all rise; at another signal how
they hustle down. Then at last, when the "Old Hundredth" begins, all the
little voices unite as the blending of many waters. Such fresh, happy
voices, singing with such innocent, heedful tenderness as would bring
tears to the eyes of even stony-hearted old Malthus, bring to the most
irreligious thoughts of Him who bade little children come to Him, and
would not have them repulsed.

Blake's poem begins--

"'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
Came children walking two and two, in red and blue and green;
Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames' waters flow.

"Oh, what a multitude they seemed, those flowers of London town;
Seated in companies they were, with radiance all their own;
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,
Thousands of little boys and girls, raising their innocent hands.

"Now like a migh