THE VOICE OF THE THAMES.
Leave, dweller in the smoke-bound street,
Your native London's ceaseless noise.
With aching head and weary feet
Turn from the town's delusive joys.
On dusty terrace, grimy square,
A dismal pall seems settling down;
Be not the Season's slave, and dare,
Oh town-bred man, to leave the town.
The town can spare you; it may chance