Whether these were the terms finally agreed on we do not know; but we perceive by public tenders that the streets can be paved in the best possible manner for 13s. or 12s. 6d. a yard; and kept in repair for 6d. a yard additional. This is certainly much cheaper than Macadam, and we should think more economical than causeways. And, besides, it has the advantage--which one of the speakers suggested to Sir Peter Laurie--"that in case of an upset, it is far more satisfactory to contest the relative hardness of heads with a block of wood than a mass of granite."
We can only add in conclusion, that advertisements are published by the Commissioners of Sewers for contracts to pave with wood Cheapside, and Bishopsgate Street, and Whitechapel. Oh, Sir Peter!--how are the mighty fallen!
Pale, at its ghastly noon, Pauses above the death-still wood--the moon; The night-sprite, sighing, through the dim air stirs; The clouds descend in rain; Mourning, the wan stars wane, Flickering like dying lamps in sepulchres! Haggard as spectres--vision-like and dumb, Dark with the pomp of Death, and moving slow, Towards that sad lair the pale Procession come Where the Grave closes on the Night below.
With dim, deep sunken eye, Crutch'd on his staff, who trembles tottering by? As wrung from out the shatter'd heart, one groan Breaks the deep hush alone! Crush'd by the iron Fate, he seems to gather All life's last strength to stagger to the bier, And hearken----Do those cold lips murmur "Father?" The sharp rain, drizzling through that place of fear, Pierces the bones gnaw'd fleshless by despair, And the heart's horror stirs the silver hair.
Fresh bleed the fiery wounds Through all that agonizing heart undone-- Still on the voiceless lips "my Father" sounds, And still the childless Father murmurs "Son!" Ice-cold--ice-cold, in that white shroud he lies-- Thy sweet and golden dreams all vanish'd there-- The sweet and golden name of "Father" dies Into thy curse,--ice-cold--ice-cold--he lies Dead, what thy life's delight and Eden were!
Mild, as when, fresh from the arms of Aurora, When the air like Elysium is smiling above, Steep'd in rose-breathing odours, the darling of Flora Wantons over the blooms on his winglets of love.-- So gay, o'er the meads, went his footsteps in bliss, The silver wave mirror'd the smile of his face; Delight, like a flame, kindled up at his kiss, And the heart of the maid was the prey of his chase.