And leaves Cornhill to night, and thieves, and rakes.
The lover finds thee pensioner of bliss,—
By thee he speeds to reap the promised kiss.
On thy ‘outside,’ no muff can plead his qualms,
And us forbid to colour our meerschaums;
Thy ramparts hold we by an ancient lease,
And there unchallenged, smoke the pipe of peace.
All hail! thou kindest gift of human sense!
Thou envy of the wretch—who lacks three-pence!
All hail! thou huge, earth-born leviathan!