The lamps of the City burn dull and dead,
The wintry raindrops fall,
And thick mists, borne from the River's bed,
Round London's hoary Tower are spread,
O'erhanging, like a pall.
When, suddenly—look! a red light creeps
Up from the Tower on high!
One shriek of "fire!"—and lo! it sweeps
Through yon vast Armoury.
Up, up it springs, on giant wings,