A SONG.
Young Joe, he was a carman gay,
As any town could show;
His team was good, and, like his pence,
Was always on the go;
A thing, as every jackass knows,
Which often leads to wo!
It fell out that he fell in love,
By some odd chance or whim,
With Alice Payne—beside whose eyes
All other eyes were dim:
The painful tale must out—indeed,
She was A Pain to him.
For, when he ask’d her civilly
To make one of they two,
She whipp’d her tongue across her teeth,
And said, “D’ye think it true,
I’d trust my load of life with sich
A waggoner as you?
“No, no—to be a carman’s wife
Will ne’er suit Alice Payne;
I’d better far a lone woman
For evermore remain,
Than have it said, while in my youth,
My life is on the wain!”
“Oh, Alice Payne! Oh, Alice Payne!
Why won’t you meet with me?”
Then up she curl’d her nose, and said,
“Go axe your axletree;
I tell you, Joe, this—once for all—
My joe you shall not be.”
She spoke the fatal “no,” which put
A spoke into his wheel—
And stopp’d his happiness, as though
She’d cry wo! to his weal:—
These women ever steal our hearts,
And then their own they steel.
So round his melancholy neck
Poor Joe his drag-chain tied,
And hook’d it on a hook—“Oh! what
A weight is life!” he cried;
Then off he cast himself—and thus
The cast-off carman died!
Howbeit, as his son was set,
(Poor Joe!) at set of sun,
They laid him in his lowly grave,
And gravely that was done;
And she stood by, and laugh’d outright—
How wrong—the guilty one!
But the day of retribution comes
Alike to prince and hind,
As surely as the summer’s sun
Must yield to wintry wind:
Alas! she did not mind his peace—
So she’d no peace of mind.
For when she sought her bed of rest,
Her rest was all on thorns;
And there another lover stood,
Who wore a pair of horns:
His little tiny feet were cleft,
And cloven, like a fawn’s;
His face and garb were dark and black,
As daylight to the blind;
And a something undefinable
Around his skirt was twin’d—
As if he wore, like other pigs,
His pigtail out behind.
His arms, though less than other men’s,
By no means harm-less were:
Dark elfin locks en lock’d his brow—
You might not call them hair;
And, oh! it was a gas-tly sight
To see his eye-balls glare.
And ever, as the midnight bell
Twelve awful strokes had toll’d,
That dark man by her bedside stood,
Whilst all her blood run cold;
And ever and anon he cried,
“I could a tail unfold!”
And so her strength of heart grew less,
For heart-less she had been;
And on her pallid cheek a small
Red hectic spot was seen:
You could not say her life was spent
Without a spot, I wean.
And they who mark’d that crimson light
Well knew the treach’rous bloom—
A light that shines, alas! alas!
To light us to our tomb:
They said ’twas like thy cross, St. Paul’s,
The signal of her doom.
And so it prov’d—she lost her health,
When breath she needed most—
Just as the winning horse gets blown
Close by the winning-post.
The ghost, he gave up plaguing her—
So she gave up the ghost.
H. L.
London.
MODERN IMPROVEMENTS.
In the annals of the world there have never been such rapid changes and such vast improvements as have occurred in this metropolis during the last seven years. We have no occasion now to refer to Pennant to produce exclamations of surprise at the wonderful changes in London; our own recollections are sufficient. Oxford-street seems half a mile nearer to Charing Cross than in the days of our youth. Swallow-street, with all the dirty courts in its vicinity, have been swallowed up, and replaced by one of the most magnificent streets in Europe; a street, which may vie with the Calle d’Alcala in Madrid, with the Quartier du Chapeau Rouge at Bourdeaux, or the Place de Louis Quinze at Paris. We must, for the present, overlook the defects of the architectural detail of this street, in the contemplation of the great and general improvement which its construction has produced in the metropolis.
Other streets are proposed by the same active genius under which Regent-street has been accomplished; the vile houses which surrounded and hid the finest portico in London—that of St. Martin’s church—are already taken down; a square is to be formed round this building, with two large openings into the Strand, and plans are already in agitation to lay open other churches in the same manner. Even the economical citizens have given us a peep at St. Bride’s—being ashamed again to hide beauties which accident had given them an opportunity of displaying to greater advantage. One street is projected from Charing Cross to the British Museum, terminating in a square, of which the church in Hart-street is to form the centre; another is intended to lead to the same point from Waterloo-bridge, by which this structure, which is at present almost useless, will become the great connecting thoroughfare between the north and south sides of the Thames: this street is, indeed, a desideratum to the proprietors of the bridge, as well as to the public at large. Carlton-house is already being taken down—by which means Regent-street will terminate at the south end, with a view of St. James’s Park, in the same manner as it does at the north end, by an opening into the Regent’s Park.
Such is the general outline of the late and the projected improvements in the heart of the metropolis; but they have not stopped here. The king has been decorating Hyde Park with lodges, designed by Mr. Decimus Burton, which are really gems in architecture, and stand unrivalled for proportion, chasteness, and simplicity, amidst the architectural productions of the age.
Squares are already covering the extensive property of lord Grosvenor in the fields of Chelsea and Pimlico; and crescents and colonnades are planned, by the architect to the bishop of London, on the ground belonging to the diocese at Bayswater.
But all suburban improvements sink into insignificance, when compared with what has been projected and attained within the last seven years in the Regent’s Park. This new city of palaces has appeared to have started into existence like the event of a fairy tale. Every week showed traces of an Aladdin hand in its progress, till, to our astonishment, we ride through streets, squares, crescents, and terraces, where we the other day saw nothing but pasture land and Lord’s-cricket-ground;—a barn is replaced by a palace—and buildings are constructed, one or two of which may vie with the proudest efforts of Greece and Rome.
The projector, with true taste, has called the beauties of landscape to the aid of architectural embellishment; and we accordingly find groves, and lawns, and streams intersecting the numerous ranges of terraces and villas; while nature, as though pleased at the efforts of art, seems to have exerted herself with extraordinary vigour to emulate and second the efforts of the artist.
In so many buildings, and amidst so much variety, there must, consequently, be many different degrees of architectural excellence, and many defects in architectural composition; but, taken as a whole, and the short time occupied in its accomplishment, the Regent’s Park may be considered as one of the most extraordinary creations of architecture that has ever been witnessed. It is the only speculation of the sort where elegance seems to have been considered equally with profit in the disposition of the ground. The buildings are not crowded together with an avaricious determination to create as much frontage as possible; and we cannot bestow too much praise on the liberality with which the projector has given up so much space to the squares, roads, and plantations, by which he has certainly relinquished many sources of profit for the pleasure and convenience of the public.
It is in the contemplation of these additions and improvements to our metropolis, that we doubly feel the blessings and effects of that peace which has enabled the government, as well as private individuals, to attempt to make London worthy of the character it bears in the scale of cities; and we are happy now to feel proud of the architectural beauty, as we always have of the commercial influence, of our metropolis.[53]
[53] Monthly Magazine.