The deafening surge assault his wooden ear,
With joy repeats sweet sounds of mutual bliss,
The soft susurrant sigh, and gently-murmuring kiss.
So thy dark arches, London Bridge, bestride
Indignant Thames, and part his angry tide,
There oft—returning from those green retreats,
Where fair Vauxhallia decks her sylvan seats;—
Where each spruce nymph, from city compters free,
Sips the froth’d syllabub, or fragrant tea;
While with sliced ham, scraped beef, and burnt champagne,