FLEET STREET THROUGH AMERICAN EYES. [To THE EDITOR OF THE

"SPECTATOR."] SIR,—The enclosed poem lately appeared in the Indianapolis News. .I. am sure its tone will delight thousands of the English-speaking race on both sides of the water.—I am, Sir,

Z.

" FLEET STREET.

He journeys o'er the ocean's foam, Bridged by the viewless wires that bring News of the world, in quest of Home— Home of his race the poets sing.

Nothing is strange, though all is new—

For all is his! He feels the spell Of other days which once he knew,

And hears again the oft-heard bell.

The grimy glories of the street

By Johnson loved, St. Paul's great dome, Statue of Anne—his pulses beat—

By Esmond seen, ah, this is Home !

Wondrous the trail so deeply worn

By feet of men not born to die—

And Chancery Lane, he could have sworn He saw Noll Goldsmith hurrying by !

The Inns of Court, Pump Court and Lamb, The room where Warrington and Pen Lived, drank and smoked—he hears the Psalm From Temple church, the loud amen.

Greater than all the one who came From Avon's shores to breast the tide That swirls through Fleet Street, his dear fame E'en Eastcheap's slums hath glorified!

With him the rover hears once more The chimes at midnight, ringing clear Above the thronging city's roar, And thanks the gods his Home is here!

England, our England, not alone To those who own thy sway belongs Thy fame which round the world bath gone, Borne, not by arms, but in thy songs !

Men may blaspheme thee, but we bless Thy star-lit name, and bow the knee In deepest, tenderest thankfulness, Proud of our royal debt to thee!

To-night the street is thronged with those Who speak our tongue, and hail us kin— And when the doors behind us close We see Sam Johnson in the Inn !