——:o:——
The S. K. Ring’s Requiem.
The turret-clock proclaims the hour eleven;
Sir Francis Bolton[23] from his tower descends;
The last illumined shower drops from heaven,
And so the much-bepuff’d “Colinderies” ends.
Now fade the glimm’ring lamps amongst the trees,
And all seems dismal now, and dark and dead,
Save where the crowds still t’wards the station squeeze,
And through the Subway plod with weary tread.