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| THE DAYS of Bute and Grafton’s fame, | |
| Of Chatham’s waning prime, | |
| First heard your sounding gong proclaim | |
| Its chronicle of Time; | |
| Old days when Dodd confessed his guilt, | 5 |
| When Goldsmith drave his quill, | |
| And genial gossip Horace built | |
| His house on Strawberry Hill. | |
| |
| Now with a grave unmeaning face | |
| You still repeat the tale, | 10 |
| High-towering in your somber case, | |
| Designed by Chippendale; | |
| Without regret for what is gone, | |
| You bid old customs change, | |
| As year by year you travel on | 15 |
| To scenes and voices strange. | |
| |
| We might have mingled with the crowd | |
| Of courtiers in this hall, | |
| The fans that swayed, the wigs that bowed, | |
| But you have spoiled it all; | 20 |
| We might have lingered in the train | |
| Of nymphs that Reynolds drew, | |
| Or stared spell-bound in Drury Lane | |
| At Garrick—but for you. | |
| |
| We might in Leicester Fields have swelled | 25 |
| The throng of beaux and cits, | |
| Or listened to the concourse held | |
| Among the Kitcat wits; | |
| Have strolled with Selwyn in Pall Mall, | |
| Arrayed in gorgeous silks, | 30 |
| Or in Great George Street raised a yell | |
| For Liberty and Wilkes. | |
| |
| This is the life which you have known, | |
| Which you have ticked away, | |
| In one unmoved unfaltering tone | 35 |
| That ceased not day by day, | |
| While ever round your dial moved | |
| Your hands from span to span, | |
| Through drowsy hours and hours that proved | |
| Big with the fate of man. | 40 |
| |
| A steady tick for fatal creeds, | |
| For youth on folly bent, | |
| A steady tick for worthy deeds, | |
| And moments wisely spent; | |
| No warning note of emphasis, | 45 |
| No whisper of advice, | |
| To ruined rake or flippant miss, | |
| For coquetry or dice. | |
| |
| You might, I think, have hammered out | |
| With meaning doubly clear, | 50 |
| The midnight of a Vauxhall rout | |
| In Evelina’s ear; | |
| Or when the night was almost gone, | |
| You might, the deals between, | |
| Have startled those who looked upon | 55 |
| The cloth when it was green. | |
| |
| But no, in all the vanished years | |
| Down which your heels have run, | |
| Your message borne to heedless ears | |
| Is one and only one— | 60 |
| No wit of men, no power of kings, | |
| Can stem the overthrow | |
| Wrought by this pendulum that swings | |
| Sedately to and fro. | |
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