Oh! distinctly I remember, for it happen’d this December
And each separate, dying ember seem’d a figure on the floor.
Nervously I wish’d the morrow; for so far I’d failed to borrow—
From the Bank of England borrow—at the same rate as before—
At the same low rate of interest I had borrow’d at before—
They would lend at Two no more.
And I had a sort of notion that this fact was known to Goschen,
Whilst the dread of Childers fill’d me with a fear not felt before,
So that now to still the beating of my heart I’d been repeating:
“P’rhaps some luck may yet befall you ere you stand upon the floor—