As up Cornhill he takes his lonely way—
“Where are the harvests which I used to reap,
Beneath the sickle of each drawing day?
“Ah! where is Sivewright? where is Eyton now?
Where are the placards, which so lately told
The clustering congregation when and hew
The thirty thousands were all shared and sold?
“Where dwelt activity there reigneth gloom:
My well-known friends have lost their public rank:
The Lottery has pass’d into the tomb,