Therein his magic pencil laboured gladly,
Fixing for ever on his chosen page
In forms fond memory now reviews so sadly
The crowded pageant of a passing age.

What an array! How varied a procession!
The humours of the parlour, shop, and street;
Philistia's every calling, craft, profession,
Cockneydom's cheery cheek and patter fleet.

Scotch dryness, Irish unction and cajolery,
Waiterdom's wiles, Deacondom's pomp of port;
Rustic simplicity, domestic drollery,
The freaks of Service and the fun of Sport;

And all with such true art, so fine, unfailing,
Of touch so certain, and of charm so fresh,
As to lend dignity to Cabmen railing,
To fustianed clods and fogies full of flesh.

Nor human humours only; who so tender
Of touch when sunny Nature out-of-doors
Wooed his deft pencil? Who like him could render
Meadow or hedgerow, turnip-field, or moor?

Snowy perspective, long suburban winding
Of bowery road-way, villa-edged and trim.
Iron-railed city street, where gas-lamps blinding
Glare through the foggy distance dense and dim?