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THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

RHYMING RUMINATIONS ON OLD LONDON BRIDGE.

  Oh! ancient London Bridge,
    And art thou done for? 
  To walk across thee were a privilege
    That some unborn enthusiasts would run for. 
  I have crossed o’er thee many and many a time,
    And hold my head the higher for having done it;
          Considering it a prime
    And rare adventure—­worthy of a sonnet
          Or little flight in rhyme,
    A monody, an elegy, or ode,
    Or whatsoever name may be bestowed
    On this wild rhapsody of lawless chime—­
          When I have done it.

  How many busy hands, and heads, and hearts—­
    What quantities of great and little people
          As thick as shot;
  Some of considerable pride and parts,
    And high in their own eyes as any steeple,
          Though now forgot! 
  How many dogs, and sheep, and pigs, and cattle,
    How many trays of hot-cross buns and tarts,
  How many soldiers ready armed for battle,
    How many cabs, and coaches, drags, and carts,
    Bearing the produce of a thousand marts,
  How many monarchs poor, and beggars proud,
    Bishops too humble to be contumacious;
  How many a patriot—­many a watchman loud—­
    Lawyers too honest, ay, and thieves too gracious: 
        In short, how great a number
          Of busy men—­
  As well as thousand loads of human lumber
    Have past, old fabric, o’er thee! 
          How can I then
    But heartily deplore thee!

  Milton himself thy path has walked along,
    That noble, bold, and glorious politician,
  That mighty prince of everlasting song! 
    That bard of heaven, earth, chaos, and perdition! 
  Poor hapless Spenser, too, that sweet musician
          Of faery land,
  Has crossed thee, mourning o’er his sad condition,
    And leaning upon sorrow’s outstretched hand. 
  Oft, haply, has great Newton o’er thee stalked
          So much entranced,
  He knew not haply if he ran or walked,
    Hopped, waddled, leaped, or danced.

  Along thee, too, Johnson has sideways staggered,
    With the old wolf inside of him unfed;
  And Savage roamed, with visage lean and haggard,
          Longing for bread. 
        And next in note,
  Dear worthy Goldsmith with his gaudy coat,
    Unheeded by the undiscerning folks;
        There Garrick too has sped,
    And, light of heart, he cracked his playful jokes—­
  Yet though he walked, on Foote he cracked them not;
  And Steele, and Fielding, Butler, Swift, and Pope—­
  Who filled the world with laughter, joy, and hope;
  And thousands, that throw sunshine on our lot,
  And, though they die, can never be forgot.