(H. K. BROWNE)

The Lamp is out that lighted up the text Of Dickens, Lever—heroes of the pen. Pickwick and Lorrequer we love, but next We place the man who made us see such men. What should we know of Martin Chuzzlewit, Stern Mr. Dombey, or Uriah Heep? Tom Burke of Ours?—Around our hearths they sit, Outliving their creators—all asleep! No sweeter gift ere fell to man than his Who gave us troops of friends—delightful Phiz! He is not dead! There in the picture-book He lives with men and women that he drew; We take him with us to the cozy nook Where old companions we can love anew. Dear boyhood's friend! We rode with him to hounds; Lived with dear Peggotty in after years; Missed in old Ireland where fun knew no bounds; At Dora's death we felt poor David's tears! There is no death for such a man—he is The spirit of an unclosed book! immortal Phiz!