St. Wagner’s Eve

THE hop—shop is shut up: the night doth wear. Here, early, Collinson this evening fell “Into the gulfs of sleep”; and Deverell Has turned upon the pivot of his chair The whole of this night long; and Hancock there Has laboured to repeat, in accents screechy, “Guardami ben, ben son, ben son Beatrice”; And Bernhard Smith still beamed, serene and square. By eight, the coffee was all drunk. At nine We gave the cat some milk. Our talk did shelve, Ere ten, to gasps and stupor. Helpless grief Made, towards eleven, my inmost spirit pine, Knowing North's hour. And Hancock, hard on twelve, Showed an engraving of his bas-—relief.