London the proudest city of the world,
Ambitious too, and never unambitious;
Her commerce, like her beauty, feeds the net,
And still she reigns superior and supreme.
Her learning is prodigious, mighty, vast,
But she hath sin abundant, sorrow dread,
Sorrow which is, as learning to the wise,
And sin, which is the ignorance of fools.
In London, all the world concentrates-nations
Of every clime and of all countries meet.
In London, the belles-lettres flourish still;
Oh! proudly unfamiliar London! Here
Assemble too the base-born sons of Pride,
As false as hell that pride, and ever new.
E'en though the Preacher' said,-beneath the

sun

There was no novelty-Oh! had he seen
The manifold disguises of poor Pride-
The base, the mean, the despicable tricks,
The shifting, and the lying, and the lust,
And all the petty acts which pride supports,
By which it is supported, and by which
At length it is betray'd-he would have said
That in all things the sun has brought to light,
Which Nature owns, which man has dar'd to act,
Which circumstance or fate has brought to pass,
He had not reckon'd in his wisdom's lore
The metamorphoses of beggar Pride,
For ever changing and for ever new.
The Mountebank lives here, recluse, retir'd,
Till his vocation calls him into life.
With nostrum, or new patent all prepared,
Or quaint device of some forgotten clown,
Who grinn'd his last, last year, as grave as death.
The literary Mountebank pants here

For glittering gold, that glitters not for him,
Far from his pocket as his works from fame,
Or as St. Giles's Workhouse from the Bank.
The song, the dance, the loud and braggart oath,
The theft, the lie, the promise made to break,
Imprisonment for life, and death are here.
Commingled without blush, or sense of shame,
Here walk the lewd, the vile, in scarlet clad,
In green, gray, pink, in brown and russet suit;
And here the Pimp, with grin of infamy,
In private prowls about with fell design,
Seeking his bread by day, his prey by night.
With horrid front and daring terrible,
The Swindler here is found, superior
With courteous dispose he walks abroad,
Is ever on the tip toe of despair,
With prison doors harsh grating on his ears,
And clanking chains of iron sounding still,
With fellow prisoners' heart-piercing groans.
Here, too, the midnight Robber lives, all know-
[siness,

ing,

Himself unknown, he plies his deathward bu-
While sleep the unsuspecting sons of commerce,
Dreaming of profit on the morrow's dawn.
The Mendicant is here, a gentleman;
And clothes himself by day sublimely poor
And beggar'd to the skin for sake of alms,
At night! (oh! name it not in Babylon)
He with the prostitute, degraded, ambling,
Blusters, and swells his cheeks, and treads the
flags

With desperate feet, unconscious of a lord,
Equal to those to whom but now he sued.
The Player-merry and delightful Player-
The Mountebank is now grown classical,
Roves here, both far and wide, in arts consum-

mate.

His trade-oh! vulgar!-call it a profession,
Held honourable, for he 's wondrous clever.
Brutus and Timon, and the Jew of Venice,
And Helter-Skelter, and Don Roderick, Rogue,
And many like to them and pitiful,
And mean as pitiful, and less amusing,
Are now become subservient to the sock.
'Madame' comes on-Madame '-oh where is
she?
[artists.
She plays to night-' strike up the music,'
Let Bull behold the trickster's every trick,

And all the trumpery that best beguiles
Time, money, morals from a thoughtless crowd.
Nor will we overlook the Dandy old-

The gay Coquette, the Courtier grey, and all
Th' unblushing puppets of a shameless court.
But times are altered there-the change was
good,

"Twas needed too, and long and loudly called for.
London, the more than Babylon, the fam'd,
Than Babel greater, vaster far than Rome;
London, of Europe the one amphitheatre-
Of Arts the matron, of star-crowned Science
First mother, and the mart of all the world;
London, the lounge of learning excellent,
The patroness of Virtue and of Vice,
Has now to boast a moral Adelaide,
Princess most high in worth and dignity;
"Tis her's to listen to the poor man's prayer,
To pity, and to comfort, and relieve.
Her Court how virtuous! the example see!
Example speaks when precept is not heard,
And Virtue rules where Vice too oft has
sway'd, &c.

Sonnets. By Edward Moxon. Pt. II.

AS we were passing the other day down Dover-street, Nescio quid meditans nugarum,' on coming opposite to a respectable-looking house on the sinistral side of the street, we heard a strange repetition of monosyllabic words; and on stopping for a moment, distinctly caught the voice of a person who appeared walking rapidly up and down the room, crying, "Hand, land, - that stand, fann'd, plann'd, strand, will do, I only want six;" then he recommenced, Plough, brow, now. This is a bad word for rhyming (this was said sotto voce), I must get another, grave, wave, save, lave," &c. and so he went on, till we considered it not polite to listen any longer, thinking the gentleman might be talking confidentially to himself. When however this volume reached us, the mystery was unravelled: it proved to be Mr. Moxon in the very act of concocting one of his sonnets, twentyeight of which are now, by his kindness, before us.

We have more than once given our sentiments on this species of poetry : once before in a review of Mr. Moxon, and latterly when we recommended some similar publications from the pen of two reverend gentlemen, Mr. Strong and Mr. C. Trench. We shall therefore, at present, content ourselves with saying that Mr. Moxon has exceedingly improved in poetical expression, as well as in elegant and fanciful conceptions, since he last published. The chief faults of his Sonnets consist in the pauses being too much at the

end of the lines; and in his not having preserved the strict succession of rhymes. It would appear that Cupid and Apollo are both leading him to the hill of Fame; and it would therefore be ungracious were we not to give specimens of those parts which come under the protection of either deity; and as Omnia tulit Amor,' we will begin with the description of a person who we presume by this time is Mrs. Edward Moxon.

SONNET Í.

By classic Cam a lovely flowret grew,
The sun scarce shone upon its tender birth
Ere it was left, the loneliest thing on earth,-
An orphan bent by every wind that blew.
And yet the summer-fields in all their pride
And lustiness of beauty, could compare
No gem with this.-Fairest of all things fair
Was she whose sole endeavour was to hide
Her brightness from the day; nor fawn more gay
Or sportive, in its liveliest mood, could be
Than was this flower, rejoicing in the glee
Of its own nature. Thitherward one day
Walking perchance, the lovely gem I spied,
And from that moment sought it as my bride.

There is a little mannerism or quaintness of expression in this sonnet, which would be as well avoided; and 'sought it,' for her,' is a blemish.

SONNET III.

The cygnet crested on the purple water,
The fawn at play beside its graceful dam
On cowslip banks in spring, the artless lamb,
The hawthorn rob'd in white, May's fragrant
daughter,

The willow weeping o'er the silent stream,
The rich laburnum with its golden show,
The fairy vision of a poet's dream,

On summer's eve earth's many-colour'd bow,
Diana at her birth, Aurora bright,

The dove that sits and singeth o'er her woes,
The star of eve, the lily, child of light,
Fair Venus self, as from the sea she rose-
Imagine these, and I in truth will prove
They are not half so fair, as her I love.

This sonnet is not a good construction, either in rhyme or in and pause; the images are too remote from each other, in some cases, to be so intermingled, as

The rich laburnum with its golden show,
The fairy vision of a poet's dream.

The SIXTH we like better.

O Sleep, do thou perform a holy task,
And o'er the orbs of yonder sainted maid
With watchings worn, soft spread the tenderest
shade

That e'er the brow of virgin pure did mask.
Her, to thy care, sweet Sleep, do I resign.
Her eyelids close so that she may repair
Her fragile form, and do thou nightly then
Shed on her, amid dreams, thy balm benign.
All excellent she is, therefore do thou
GENT. MAG. VOL. V.

restore,

To her, mild influence, health and strength
And I will praise thee, as did bards of yore,
And on thee choicest epithets bestow.
Descend, meek spirit then, and like the dove
Shade with thy wings, till morn, the maid I love.

We will give one more, the TENTH, in honour of the same lady :

And what was Stella but a haughty dame?
Or Geraldine, whom noble Surrey sought?
Or Sacharissa, she who proudly taught
The courtly Waller statelier verse to frame?
Or Beatrice, whom Dante deified?
Or she of whom all Italy once rung?
Compar'd with thee, who art our age's pride,
And the sweet theme of many a poet's tongue.
There is a nobleness that dwells within,
Fairer by far than any outward feature;
A grace, a wit to gentleness akin,
That would subdue the most unloving creature;
These beauties rare are thine, most matchless
maid,
[shade.
Compar'd with which, theirs was but beauty's

We have read, with great pleasure, that part of this little collection which is set apart to throw a few tear-besprinkled flowers over the grave of poor Charles Lamb, as SONNET XII. Here sleeps beneath this bank, where_daisies [breast.

grow,

The kindliest sprite earth holds within her
In such a spot, I would this frame should rest,
When I to join my friends far hence shall go.
His only mate is now the minstrel lark,
Who chaunts her morning music on his bed.
Save she [her] who comes each evening ere the
bark

Of watch-dog gathers drowsy folds, to shed
A sister's tears. Kind Heaven! upon her head
Do thou in dove-like guise thy spirit pour,
And in her aged path some flowrets spread
Of earthly joy!-should Time for her in store
Have weary days and nights, e'er she shall greet
Him whom she longs in Paradise to meet.

We can only afford room for one more, which shall be dedicated to the same subject.

SONNET XIV.

I meet him still at his accustom❜d hour,
Duly each morn as he ascends the hill
Where the high cross of Tottenham doth fulfil
Its purpose with admonitory power;
Or wandring by the side of pastoral Lea,
Who murmurs in his ear of happier days,
When Walton on his banks sung Marlow's lays
Blending with these his cheerful piety.
Long may his spirit greet me on the road,
And oft revive within my lonely breast
The sweet remembrance of his lov'd abode;
And sweeter smile that gave my worn feet rest,
And e'en a parent's care on me bestow'd,
Lightening each burden that my heart opprest.

Perhaps some of the Sonnets towards the end are superior to those which we have given; but from our specimens, it will be seen that Mr. Moxon, as a sonneteer (an honourable title), holds a fair rank among his contemporaries. The volume is dedicated to Mr. Wordsworth, himself the grand exemplar, since the days of Milton, of this species of composition. 20