The sacred shrine of number Thirty, Strand,
And saw bright glittering in the hemisphere
Like stars on moony nights—a sacred band
Of words that formed the bard’s cognomen grand
Each letter shone beneath the eye of day,
And the proud sign-boot, by spring breezes fanned,
Shot its deep brass reflections o’er the way,
As shoots the tropic morn o’er meads of Paraquay.
* * * * *
21.