Only from yonder gilt and fretted tower
Big Benjamin doth to the night complain,
Recording mournfully the passing hour,
And pealing forth his mellow-toned refrain.
Unnoticed now beneath the gallery’s shade,
Where the mice gambol, and the beetles creep,
Prone on the floor-cloth worn and half-decayed,
The Echoes of Reform are laid to sleep.
The freezing chill of Cranbourne’s bitter scorn,
Hope blundering hopelessly through what he said,