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Speak not for those a separate doom
Whom Fate made brothers in the tomb;
'But search the land of living men,
Where wilt thou find their like again?""

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Here also lie the ashes of many of the lights of song; and here stand the monuments which a grateful and admiring posterity has erected to them, and to many more whose bones crumble in other earth, rendering the corner in which they are a holy spot, only to be entered with love and reverence. The most conspicuous are those of Shakspeare, Chaucer, Spenser, Ben Jonson, Milton, Butler, Addison, Prior,

Dryden, Rowe, Gay, Thomson, West, Goldsmith, and Gray; besides those of Handel and Garrick, who may also claim to rank among the poets; the first, from the sisterhood of his art; and the second, as being in soul a poet, or he could not have been a great actor.

But we must leave Westminster and all its reminiscences behind us,-for they are too many for our purpose, and would occupy as much space as we have to bestow upon the Thames itself, and continue our course upward to Vauxhall Bridge. On the left, is the grey and venerable palace of Lambeth, the residence of the Archbishops of Canterbury almost ever since the Norman Conquest. How many recollections are excited by the mention of this spot!— Here Wat Tyler vented his fury. Here were the Lollards imprisoned in the tower which still bears their name. Here the unfortunate Earl of Essex was imprisoned by Queen Elizabeth, before his final commitment to the Tower. Here also Archbishop Laud was attacked by the riotous London 'prentices, a short time before his execution. At this place also the bigots under Lord George Gordon vented their insane fury. Close by the same spot, under the walls of St. Mary's Church, the unfortunate Mary D'Este remained

hidden, with her infant son, in the midst of the bitter storm of the 6th of December 1688, for a whole hour, awaiting a coach to convey her, a fugitive and an outcast, from the land where she had reigned as a queen; an incident which gave occasion to the following ballad.

THE FLIGHT OF MARY D'ESTE.

Cold was the night, and dark the sky,
And thick the rain did fall,

When a lady waved her hand, and cried
To a boatman at Whitehall,

"Oh, speed thee, boatman, speed thee well
Across the stormy Thames,

And bear me safely from the foes
Of me, and my young James.

"Oh, speed me safely from their spite;
I'll give a golden fee

If this poor baby at my breast

Be still preserved to me!"—

"I'll take thy fee, O lady bright,
And all my best employ,

Part for thy sake, part for thy fee,

Part for thy pretty boy.

"'Tis true, the night is dark and cold,

And winds and waters roar;

But, were it ten times wilder still,

I'd row you safe ashore."

The lady thanked him with her eyes,
From which the tears fell fast,

And the boatman wrapp'd her in his cloak,
To shield her from the blast.

Away they went, through driving sleet,
Across the angry Thames,

While still she sobb'd and sigh'd, "Alas!
God help unhappy James!

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"Oh, speed thee, boatman, speed thee well,

And should we reach the shore,

For the dear sake of this poor child
I'll thank thee evermore."

Amid the pelting rain at last
They near'd the 'bishop's wall,
And as the lady stepp'd on land
Still did her tears down fall.

She look'd around her anxiously
Some shelter to obtain,
Then clasp'd her infant closer still,
To shield it from the rain.

Alas, poor mother! far nor near
A shelter could be seen;
Beggars were snug that bitter night,
But houseless was the Queen.

And still she made a piteous moan, "Unkind, ye storms! ye be; But not so cruel as my foes

To my young James and me.

66 Oh, who would wish to fill a throne,
To be cast down so low?

Oh, who would wear a monarch's crown,
At the price of so much woe?

"Would that I were but safe again

On France's ocean strand,

I'd never quit that shore again

To come to cold England."

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