And fled from drenching skies,
And when in fogs the street was lost,
You saw his figure rise.
One night his tinkle did not sound,
He fail'd each 'custom'd door;
'Twas first of an eternal round
Of nights he walk'd no more.
When, borne in arms, my infant eye
The restless search began,
The nursery-maid was wont to cry,