"NOW o'er the world, in sable cincture clad, Night rolls her awful clouds. Her misty veil Hangs black'ning 'fore the eye, whose visual orb In vain attempts to penetrate the gloom Condens'd; save where the cotton 'mers'd in oil Within some glassy concave yields its flame Twinkling; and save where in the servile hand Behind a rattling coach, the tædal stick Held waving glimmers on the face of things. Free from the business of the bustling day, This interval indulging, to the Club Of Spouters I repair; where mortal forms, Borne high upon the feathers of conceit, Rise into air; while puffing blasts of wind, Bursting from loosely-flying Fancy's cave, Blow them to regions where Theatra dwells. Here, o'er the summit of a chair I loll; My circumspective eyes explore the room. A groupe of staring objects strike my sight; Features distinct and various. While upon The table's oval, the resplendent cup Its pure contents and frothy surface boasts Invigorant. Virginia's plant matur'd Lies in the centre. With a clay-form'd tube Each member graces his extended hand. Above the rest, with looks erect and sage, Deputed sits the regent of the night, In elbow-chair pre-eminent. His hand The silence-knocking hammer wields. Before His optic balls are plac'd two shining plates, Betwixt whose pewter confines, interspers'd With glittering pieces of argental coin, Lie wide-spread half-pence, jingling at the touch. There great he sits, with glee magnificent, The strong potation quaffing. On the slate The num'rous pots he marks, with aspect keen. So, with superior power invested, sits A constable elate, in dome rotund, Imbibing porter solid. With an air Self-confident he scrawls the captive's name. Now moves around, with circulation quick, The tankard less'ning. Strait again receives Its due completion. Like the changing tide It ebbs and flows alternate. Curling spires Ascending paint the plaster'd canopy Fuliginous: the wafture dims the sight, And thro' the smoaky mist the candles shine Azure. But lo! a Roscian stands erect Stentorophontes. Him long time I mark'd, Saw meditation hover o'er his brow, And all his faculties absorb'd in thought. He bends his head addressive to the board, And thus harangues--"Why sit we here thus mute, "And frustrate all the purpose of our meeting? "Already has the hoarse-lung'd watchman bawl'd "Past nine o'clock." So saying, forth he stalks, With step theatric. Mark his buskin tread, And eye-balls rolling. Rang'd along the floor The candles blaze. And now the signal giv'n, All bend their eyes on him--No longer now Pauses the youth, but storms in wild Macbeth. Lo! now apparent on his horrid front Sits grim distortion.