At dusk, when I am strolling there,
Dim forms will rise around me;—
Lepel flits pass me in her chair,
And Congreve’s airs astound me!
And once Nell Gwynne, a frail young sprite,
Look’d kindly when I met her;
I shook my head, perhaps,—but quite
Forgot to quite forget her.
The street is still a lively tomb
For rich, and gay, and clever;