Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre:—
“Hark! how each butcher’s stall, and mightier shops
Sighs to the market’s clattering row beneath;
For thee the women squall, the cleavers chop,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe,
Vocal no more since Monday’s fatal night,
To Thirlwall’s[58] keen remark, or Sheridan’s[58] wild flight.
III.
Mute now is Raymond’s tongue,
That hushed the club to sleep;