The buyers Inn-ward wend their weary way,
And leave the street to darkness and to me.
Now roll the bleachers’ waggons from my sight,
“The market” now a solemn stillness holds,
Save where some straggler piles a dizzy height
Of “Blackburn seventies,” in unnumber’d folds.
Save that some Charley hoarsely bawls the hour,
Proves all the padlocks, or may chance complain
To such as, wand’ring near his nightly bower,
Molest his vigilant and virtuous reign.