gratuitously, and for twelve years following at L1900 per
annum, being less than one-half the present outlay for these
purposes."

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!

* * * * *

POEMS AND BALLADS OF SCHILLER.

NO. VIII.

FIRST PERIOD CONTINUED.

A FUNERAL FANTASIE.

1.

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.

2.

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.

3.

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 l