And now the important hour drew nigh,
When, 'neath the flush of evening's sky,
The west-end "world" for mirth let loose,
And moved, as he of Syracuse[1]
Ne'er dreamt of moving worlds, by force
Of four horse power, had all combined
Thro' Grosvenor Gate to speed their course,
Leaving that portion of mankind,
Whom they call "Nobody," behind;
No star for London's feasts to-day,
No moon of beauty, new this May,
To lend the night her crescent ray;--
Nothing, in short, for ear or eye,
But veteran belles and wits gone by,
The relics of a past beau-monde,
A world like Cuvier's, long dethroned!
Even Parliament this evening nods
Beneath the harangues of minor Gods,
On half its usual opiate's share;
The great dispensers of repose,
The first-rate furnishers of prose
Being all called to--prose elsewhere.
Soon as thro' Grosvenor's lordly square--
That last impregnable redoubt,
Where, guarded with Patrician care,
Primeval Error still holds out--
Where never gleam of gas must dare
'Gainst ancient Darkness to revolt,
Nor smooth Macadam hope to spare
The dowagers one single jolt;--
Where, far too stately and sublime
To profit by the lights of time,
Let Intellect march how it will,
They stick to oil and watchman still:--
Soon as thro' that illustrious square
The first epistolary bell.
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