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SCENES IN LONDON: OXFORD STREET.
IFE in its many shapes was there,
The busy and the gay;
Faces that seemed too young and fair
To ever know decay.
Wealth, with its waste, its pomp, and pride,
Led forth its glittering train;
And poverty’s pale face beside
Asked aid, and asked in vain.
The shops were filled from many lands,
Toys, silks, and gems, and flowers;
The patient work of many hands,
The hope of many hours.
Yet, mid life’s myriad shapes around
There was a sigh of death;
There rose a melancholy sound,
The bugle’s wailing breath.
They played a mournful Scottish air,
That on its native hill
Had caught the notes the night-winds bear
From weeping leaf and rill.
’Twas strange to hear that sad wild strain
Its warning music shed,
Rising above life’s busy train,
In memory of the dead.
There came a slow and silent band
In sad procession by:
Reversed the musket in each hand,
And downcast every eye.
They bore the soldier to his grave;
The sympathising crowd
Divided like a parted wave
By some dark vessel ploughed.
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