And mine begins to plod his weary way,
And leave my rooms to solitude and me, &c.
The Mirror. Vol. 5, p. 131.
——:o:——
Alas! Poor Fallen Sir Francis![17]
Elegy written in Westminster Hall.
The Judges toll the knell of Burdett’s fame,
The rabble-rout disperse with lack of glee;
The counsel homeward plod just as they came,
And leave the Hall to darkness and to me.