To the dull House when night and morning meet,
Dragged to Divisions drear with dawdling feet?

No, hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
The street, the hall its echoes now repeat,
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! Arm! it is--it is--the Elections' opening roar!

'Tis in our midst--that figure draped and dim,
Whose mocking music makes us all afraid.
"Death as the Foe!" Can it indeed be _Him_?
Duller, more dirge-like tune was never played
On strings more spirit-chilling. Feet are stayed
Though in mid-waltz, and laughter, though at height,
Hushes, and maidens modishly arrayed
For matrimonial conquest, shrink with fright;
And Fashion palsied sits, and Shopdom takes to flight.

Ah! then and there are hurryings to and fro
And gathering tears, and poutings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which some short hours ago
Glowed with the deep delights of Dance and Dress;
And there are sudden partings, such as press
The hope from Spoons of promise, meaning sighs
Which ne'er may be repeated; who can guess
If ever more shall meet those mutual eyes,
When Dissolution snaps the Season's tenderest ties?

And there is scuttling in hot haste: the steed,
The Coaching Meet, the Opera's latest star,