Now fades the glimm’ring lamps upon the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds;
Save where the watchman bawls “A cloudy night,”
And tipsy rev’ller the shut tavern scolds.
Save that yon victim of a ruffian’s pow’r
Does loudly to the street-patrole complain
Of such, as lurking at this silent hour,
Molest the king of midnight’s ancient reign.
Within those gates that iron strong has made,
Where rooms o’er rooms arise in many a heap,