The long, long trill of quaver-torturing Brent,[2]
Miss Hallam[2] twittering from her tender throat,
Thy clarion, Beard,[2] that Echo’s ear has rent,
No more shall rouze each lowly-slumbering note.
For these no more a parent’s breast shall burn;
His busy fingers ply their evening care;
Poor banish’d children! never to return,
Nor their own tender sire’s applause to share.
Oft did the City Nymph their sweetness own
Their force the stubborn sentinel has broke;