Where once the Templar bowed his head, Where nursemaids walk
and children sport, Where Blackstone wrote and Murray read,— A lasting halo o'er them dwells, Though dingy look those little cells.
The Queen's Bench and the Common Pleas, The Exchequer Court, the crowded hall Resound their fame who win large fees ; Their chambers sent them forth to bawl In strains to them snore tuneful far Than 'Star of the evening, beautiful star.'
The Temple looks upon its garden, Its garden on the Thames, And musing here, whose heart could harden To money's joys and fame's ?
For standing in such haunts as these One cannot choose but dream of fees.
A barrister sat in Crown Office Row, That overlooks the river ; Attorneys bore large briefs below, None came to him whatever,— At noon they did not cheer his eye, And e'en at sunset passed him by.
"Oh ! where are they, and where are ye, My countrymen ?" he sadly said, "And will ye never come to me, And is your love of wrangling dead ? And must my brain so long confused Grow dull for want of being used?
"'Tis something, in the dearth of briefs, Though subject to this dreary grind, To let sweet dreams convey reliefs That help to soothe my anxious mind,— What other means is left to prove For fees my wish, for fees my love I "Must I lament o'er others' fame?
Must 1 but crawl while others race ? Luck! render me, thou cruel dame, A junior in a Tichborne case,— Of rich estates grant but the prize To make a new Sir Roger rise.
"Place me on Hatherley's woollen sack, Where none but justices and I Shall e'er unwind Law's tortuous track,— There let me live, and let me die.
Ah ! me, such bliss may never bless,— Dash down the cup of happiness." W. E. H. F.
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