And Hanwell all a solemn stillness holds;
Nay, e’en the beadle feels the moaning light,
And jelly sparkles in the glistening moulds.
There on the jagged shells ’neath beauty’s shade,
Where melancholy watch the mole doth keep,
Each in his waistcoat straight for ever laid,
The well-bred lunatics of Hanwell sleep.
Haply, some keeper, hard-hearted, may say,
Oft have we seen him calling to the moon,
Beck’ning, with hasty thumb, the stars away,