KEPT IN TOWN.—A Lament.
The Season's ended; in the Park the vehicles are far and few,
And down the lately-crowded Row one horseman canters on a screw
By stacks of unperceptive chairs; the turf is burnt, the leaves are brown,
stagnant sultriness prevails—the very air's gone out of town!
Belgravia's drawn her blinds, and let her window-boxes run to seed;
Street-urchins play in porticoes—no powdered menial there to heed;