There was a sound of revelry by day,

And England's Capital had gathered then,

Her Beauty and her Masherdom, and gay

Spring's sun shone o'er smart women and swell men;

A thousand shops shone showily; and when

MAY came to Mayfair, FLORA to Pall-Mall,

Shrewd eyes winked hope to eyes which winked again,

And maids heard sounds as of the marriage-bell.

But hush! hark! a harsh sound strikes like a sudden knell!

Did ye not hear it? Is it howling wind?

The tram-car rattling o'er the stony street?

The groans of M.P.'s wearily confined

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,

The Row, the River, the Vitellian feed,—

All the munitions of the Social War,

Seem fruitless now, when peal on peal afar

And near, the beat of the great Party Drum

Rouses M.P.'s to platform joust and jar,

While tongue-tied dullards scarcely dare be dumb,

When the Whips whisper "Go!" Wirepullers clamour "Come!"

"Too bad! Too bad!" The Influenza chilled,

Court-mourning marred, the Season's earliest prime,

And now, just as with hope young breasts are filled,

When young leaves still are verdant on the lime,

When diners-out are having a good time,

When Epsom's o'er and Ascot is at hand;

To cut all short, is scarcely less than crime.

Confusion on that wrangling party-band

Whose Dissolution deals the doldrums round the land!

Ah! wild and high those Phantom-fiddlings rise!—

All jocund June with palsying terror thrills;

Fashion sits frozen dead with staring eyes.

How that dread dirge the ambient Summer fills

Savage and shrill! Smart frocks, soft snowy frills,

Long trains which dancing Beauty deftly steers.

Through waltzes wild or devious quadrilles,—

All vanish; bosoms white, beset with fears;

Beat flight as that fell strain falls harsh on Beauty's ears.

And June yet waves above them her green leaves,

Dewy with Springtide's night-drops as they pass

Grieving,—if aught that's modish ever grieves,—

Over the unreturning chance. Alas!

Their hopes are all cut down ere falls the grass.

That with corn-harvest might have seen full blow.

See how foiled Shopdom flies, a huddled mass

Of disappointment, hurrying from the foe,

Who all their Season's prospects shatters, and lays low.

Last month beheld them full of lusty life.

Beauty, and Wealth, and Pleasure, proudly gay;

This music brings the signal-sound of strife,

This month the marshalling to arms. Away!

Party's magnificently sham array

The muster of Mode's mob will soon have rent.

Play on, O Phantom, ominously play!

Death as the Foe! They fly before thee, blent,

Maid, Matron, Masher, Mime, in general discontent!