The Porter tolls the bell on starting day, The blowing heard is pent-up steam let free, The lengthy train winds out its hissing way, And leaves the town to dulness and to me. Now fades the glittering season from the sight―― Belgravia a solemn stillness holds; The “families” from their mansions take to flight, And holland, glazed, the furniture enfolds. “The ring,” deserted, leaves Hyde Park in gloom, No carriage, phaeton, brougham, four-in-hand; No dashing cab, no top boot dapper groom, No haughty coachman, no tall footman bland. The well-dressed men who lean about the rail, Who lift the hat so gracefully, and bow To carriage beauties, languishing and pale, Who wearily respond――where are they now? Where is the prancing “life” of Rotten Row―― High blood of palaces, or clerk from marts? Where the fair Amazon, dashing to and fro―― She who breaks horses――eke awhile breaks hearts? Where are the gentle connoisseurs of flowers―― The languid saunterers through Covent Garden? Off to their Continental homes and bowers―― Spain――Paris――Italy――Spa――Baden-Baden. Dark is the Opera――“in silent tiers;” Just now in jewelled beauty all ablaze. How short the flitted season past appears! Singers, and ballet, too, how short their _stays_! Closed are the halls of fashionable shows―― The “R.A.” masterpieces, and the smudges―― “King Charles and Sunday”――“Venus” without clothes, That shocked the prudish, and amazed the judges. The Parliament――its grand defeats and glories―― Its orators profound, and twaddling bores―― The fiery democrats――the Whigs――the Tories―― Ah! blessed fate that gave them to the Moors! Full many a swell whose way is “all serene,” Luxurious yachts across the ocean bear; Full many a gent, too, makes a rush unseen, To taste the sweetness of the desert air. Ah you, ye proud of independent wealth, That boast of heraldry, and power, and pomp! Ye’re off to some sea coast, recruiting health―― To shooting, angling, county ball, or romp. But here the milkman calleth every morn, The sparrows twitter, seeking to be fed; The maid’s shrill signal, then is ruthless torn, The man of business from his downy bed. Come then, thou frequent, fast suburban train―― The river steamer, wherry, gig, or horse―― Let us enjoy the grassy open plain, And cultivate our cricket, or “La Crosse;” Or seek beneath the Hyde Park elms a shade Where patriots, assembled in a heap, But now the ghost of interdiction laid: The rude foregatherings of Reform may sleep. Let not ambition mock that useful toil By hardy hands and characters obscure, Nor grandeur think with a disdainful smile Of such an entry-forcible yet sure. From _Banter_. Edited by George Augustus Sala. September, 1867. ――――