Illustrious dead! one tributary sigh, In that great temple where the mighty lie, I breath'd for you—a magic charm was there Where rest the great and good, the wise and fair; Their glittering day of fame has had its close And beauty, genius, grandeur, there repose. Immortal names! kings, queens, and statesmen rise In marble forms before the gazer's eyes. Cold, pale, and silent, down each lessening aisle They clustering stand, and mimic life awhile. The warrior chief, in sculptur'd beauty dies, And in Fame's clasping arms for ever lies. "Each in his place of state," the rivals stand, The senators, who saved a sinking land; Majestic, graceful,—each with "lips apart" Whose eloquence subdued and won the heart. Pitt! round thy name how bright a halo burns, When memory to thy day of glory turns; And views thee in life's bright meridian lie, And victim to thy patriot spirit die! Round Fox's tomb, what forms angelic weep, And ever watch that chill and marble sleep! Silence, how eloquent! how deep—profound— She holds her reign above the hallow'd ground. Here sceptred monarchs in death's slumbers lie, Tudors, Plantagenets—they too could die! Beneath a 'scutcheon'd arch, with banners spread, Unhappy, murdered, Richard rests his head. While Pomfret's walls in "ruin greenly tell," How fought the brave and how the noble fell! Pale rose of York! thy sanguine rival rears Full many a tomb, and many a trophy bears. But who lies here? in marble lovely still, Here let me pause, and fancy take her fill. Poor ill-starr'd Mary; Melancholy gloom And fond regrets are waking o'er thy tomb. Bright was thy morn of promise, dark the day, That clos'd thy fate in murderous Fotheringay! How near thee lies that "bright star of the west," Elizabeth, of queens the wisest, best; Her "lion port," and her imperial brow, The dark grey stone essays in vain to show. Ye royal rivals of a former day, How has your love and hatred pass'd away! To future times how faint the voice of fame, For greatness here but "stalks an empty name." Around, above, how sorrow builds her throne, To snatch from death's embrace each treasure gone. See, how the horrid phantom bends his bow, And points his dart to lay that victim low! 1 She sinks, she falls, and her fond husband's breast Is the cold pillow to that marble rest! But softly tread upon the sacred ground, Where Britain's bards lie sepulchred round. Sons of the muse, who woke the magic spell, From the deep windings of "Apollo's shell!" Mute is each lyre, their silent strings are bound With willow, yew, and cypress wreath'd around. Their hopes, joys, sorrows, rest within the grave Admiring nations to their relics gave. Hail, mighty shades! bright spirits of the past; Here may your ashes sleep while time shall last. Let kindred genius shed the pensive tear, And grace with votive elegy each bier. While far beyond this melancholy vale, When faded sorrow tells her mournful tale, "O'er this dim spot of earth," in regions fair Your spirits dwell, and joys eternal share.

Kirton Lindsey.

ANNIE R

THE COSMOPOLITE

THE TIMES NEWSPAPER

We are not about to write an advertisement for this advertised of all advertisers—nor to talk of its square feet—its crowded broadside—or the myriads of letters that make it resemble a sea of animalculae. We are content to leave all the pride of its machinery to Messrs. Applegath and Cowper, and the clang of its engine to the peaceful purlieus of Printing-house Square. Yet these are interesting items in the advancement of science, and in the history of mankind; for whether taken mechanically or morally, the Times is, without exception, the newspaper of all newspapers, "the observed of all observers" and altogether, the most extraordinary production of this or any other age.

But we are more anxious to reach what may be called the philosophy of a newspaper—that broad volume of human life, in which "the follies, vices, and consequent miseries of multitudes are displayed." To prove this, only let the reader glance over the twenty-four columns of a Times newspaper, and attempt a calculation of the many thousand events that spring from and are connected with their contents. Yet this sheet is but as it were a day in the life of man—a mere thread of the mingled yarn of his existence—and 313 such sheets, or 1,252 such folios make but a year of his history. The subject is too vast and comprehensive for continued contemplation, for it is like all other wheels of vicissitude; we become giddy by looking too steadfastly on its twinings.

Let us take one side of any recent Times newspaper—say that of Thursday last—and attempt something like an abstract of its memorabilia. This may appear for us a toilsome task, but if the reader be not fatigued also, our time will not be misspent. Begin "at the beginning" with the old English title, broken by the royal arms—like a blocking-course; and the No. and date in a sort of typographical entablature. The first side is filled by 188 advertisements, for the most part, classed according to their objects.

Thus, we start, and not unappropriately, with notices of vessels to sail for India and the new settlement on Swan River. What temptations for adventure and avarice—what associations of industry and indolence—luxury and squalid misery—do these announcements create in the reflective mind. The nabob in his chintz—the speculator with his last hundred—and the half-starved agriculturist—are but sorry portraits beside the class to whom the next notice is addressed.—Packets to Calais, Dieppe, and Margate—necessity on her last leg, and luxury on the fantastic toe—the wasted mind and famished visage beside hoyden mirth and bloated luxury. Then the South American Mining Association Deed "lies for signature:"—what a relief in this sheet of chiaro-scuro—a kind of tinsel to set off its grave parts, with gold dust enough to blind half its readers. To this little flash of golden light succeeds shade—Chancery and creditors' notices—proving debts and consciences—followed by civil contracts for Bridewell and building a Lunatic Asylum in Kent. The association is too obvious, and verily, the maker-up of the Times newspaper is a Hogarth in his way; for what Hogarth did with pencil and brush, he does with metallic types. Next is a Saw Mill to be sold cheap, constructed for the express purpose of being sent to the Swan River settlement—how fortunate—for surely any idle wight would make his way with such assistance, especially as the machine is "on improved principles." Luxury again—paper-hangings, French lamps, and French roses—necessity again—Money on mortgage, and bills discounted: how obvious the connexion—the very cause and effect—the lamps will not burn without oil, and the roses will not bloom without money—at least they will only waste their fragrance in the desert air of the nursery-ground.

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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 368, May 2, 1829

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WESTMINSTER ABBEY

ANNIE R

THE COSMOPOLITE

THE TIMES NEWSPAPER

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