Cover the benches, And put out the light; Divisions are over, And sittings all night. The bells are all dumb, And idle the wire; Rant sinks into silence, Reporters retire. Fewer and fewer The few footsteps fall; Quiet and Constables Reign over all! _Punch_, September 18, 1880. * * * * * THE BRIDGE. I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark-church tower. * * * * * How often, oh, how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on the bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky! LONGFELLOW. THE BRIDGE (By _Longus Socius_.) I stood on the bridge at midday, And the crowd was striking in power, And the roar rose from the City, And the docks about the Tower. And I made a bright reflection On the waters under me, Like a muddy highway flowing With steamers to the sea. * * * * * How often, oh, how often, In omnibus or fly, I have crossed the bridge at midday, When you hardly could get by. How often, oh, how often I have wished the crowd beside Were at Jericho or elsewhere, Or the pathways were more wide. For my heart was hot and restless, And my mind was full of care, Lest the train I wished to go by Might start 'ere I got there. * * * * * And I think how many thousand Of crowd-encumbered men, Each striving to stem the current, Have missed their trains since then. I see the long processions Of the cabs and the 'busses go, And the eager people restless, Because they must walk so slow. And for ever, and for ever, For all that a party knows, As long as the cabs and the 'busses Must pause with their frequent "whoas," To cross it in either direction Will take an hour or near, So you simply must start at eleven, If by twelve you would cross it clear. _Fun_, November 3, 1866. * * * * * THE RINK. _Respectfully Dedicated to the Author of "The Bridge."_ I sat in the Rink at midday; The clocks were striking the hour, But you would not have known, for the April sun Was quenched in a copious shower. I saw the raindrops falling In puddles in the street, And I envied the throng that was passing along With wet, but unrollered feet. And far in the hazy distance Of that dripping April day, My snug hearth fire gleam'd redder and higher, Because I was far away. The rattle of wheels rang round me, With a quaint and wooden roar, And groups of the fair, with dishevelled hair, Were lying about on the floor.