A living sea of eager human faces,
A thousand bosoms throbbing all as one,
Walls, windows, balconies, all sorts of places,
Holding their crowds of gazers to the sun:
Through the hushed groups low-buzzing murmurs run;
And on the air, with slow reluctant swell,
Comes the dull funeral-boom of old Sepulchre's bell.

Oh, joy in London now! in festal measure
Be spent the evening of this festive day!
For thee is opening now a high-strung pleasure;
Now, even now, in yonder press-yard they
Strike from his limbs the fetters loose away!
A little while, and he, the brave Duval,
Will issue forth, serene, to glad and greet you all.
"Why comes he not? say, wherefore doth he tarry?"
Starts the inquiry loud from every tongue.

"Surely," they cry, "that tedious Ordinary
His tedious psalms must long ere this have sung,—
Tedious to him that's waiting to be hung!"
But hark! old Newgate's doors fly wide apart.
"He comes, he comes!" A thrill shoots through each
gazer's heart.

Joined in the stunning cry ten thousand voices,
All Smithfield answered to the loud acclaim.
"He comes, he comes!" and every breast rejoices,
As down Snow Hill the shout tumultuous came,
Bearing to Holborn's crowd the welcome fame.
"He comes, he comes!" and each holds back his breath—
Some ribs are broke, and some few scores are crushed to
death.

With step majestic to the cart advances
The dauntless Claude, and springs into his seat.
He feels that on him now are fixed the glances
Of many a Briton bold and maiden sweet,
Whose hearts responsive to his glories beat.

In him the honour of "The Road" is centred,
And all the hero's fire into his bosom entered.
His was the transport—his the exultation
Of Rome's great generals, when from afar,
Up to the Capitol in the ovation,
They bore with them, in the triumphal car,
Rich gold and gems, the spoils of foreign war.
Io Triumphe! They forgot their clay.

E'en so Duval, who rode in glory on his way,
His laced cravat, his kids of purest yellow,
The many-tinted nosegay in his hand,
His large black eyes, so fiery, yet so mellow,
Like the old vintages of Spanish land,
Locks clustering o'er a brow of high command,
Subdue all hearts; and, as up Holborn's steep
Toils the slow car of death, e'en cruel butchers weep.

He saw it, but he heeded not. His story,
He knew, was graven on the page of Time.
Tyburn to him was as a field of glory,
Where he must stoop to death his head sublime,
Hymned in full many an elegiac rhyme.
He left his deeds behind him, and his name—
For he, like CÆsar, had lived long enough for fame.

He quailed not, save when, as he raised the chalice,—
St Giles's bowl,—filled with the mildest ale,
To pledge the crowd, on her—his beauteous Alice—
His eye alighted, and his cheek grew pale.
She, whose sweet breath was like the spicy gale,
She, whom he fondly deemed his own dear girl,
Stood with a tall dragoon, drinking long draughts of
purl.

He bit his lip—it quivered but a moment—
Then passed his hand across his flushing brows:
He could have spared so forcible a comment
Upon the constancy of woman's vows.

One short sharp pang his hero-soul allows;
But in the bowl he drowned the stinging pain,
And on his pilgrim course went calmly forth again.

A princely group of England's noble daughters
Stood in a balcony suffused with grief,
Diffusing fragrance round them, of strong waters,
And waving many a snowy handkerchief;
Then glowed the prince of highwayman and thief!
His soul was touched with a seraphic gleam—
That woman could be false was but a mocking dream.

And now, his bright career of triumph ended,
His chariot stood beneath the triple tree.
The law's grim finisher to its boughs ascended,
And fixed the hempen bandages, while he
Bowed to the throng, then bade the car go free.
The car rolled on, and left him dangling there,
Like famed Mohammed's tomb, uphung midway in air.

As droops the cup of the surchargÈd lily
Beneath the buffets of the surly storm,
Or the soft petals of the daffodilly,
When Sirius is uncomfortably warm,
So drooped his head upon his manly form,
While floated in the breeze his tresses brown.
He hung the stated time, and then they cut him down.

With soft and tender care the trainbands bore him,
Just as they found him, nightcap, robe, and all,
And placed this neat though plain inscription o'er him,
Among the atomies in Surgeons' Hall:
"These are the Bones of the Renowned Duval!"
There still they tell us, from their glassy case,
He was the last, the best of all that noble race!