No matter, now;
Rejoined the angel monarch, smiling bright
On her confederated beguilers round:
Who smoothly sanctioned every pearly word
That beauteous and imperial rebel spake; —
My temple is my heart. My seat is fixed
Here in the midst of friends; and by this crown —
Each gem a sacred talisman of power,
Or amulet protective from all harm, —
Wrought by the spirits of the elements
And wondrously endowed, — I swear, and be
The oath, as death, irrevocable — I,
The dull alliance ye design abjure.

There is a love! 't is not the wandering fire
That must be fed on folly, or expire;
Gleam of polluted hearts, the meteor-ray
That fades, as rises Reason's nobler day;
But passion made essential , holy, bright;
Like the raised dead, our dust transform'd to light;
But, the rich foretaste of a loftier clime,
Friendship of souls, in heaven scarce more sublime!
Earth has its pangs for all; its happiest breast
Not his who meets them least, but bears them best.
Life must be toil! yet oh, that toil how drear,
But for this soother of its brief career,

So Wisdom made her favourite wise of heart,
And led the loved one through all holy spheres
And dwellings of seraphic bliss, and homes
Of perfect pleasure — even as the sun
Wades through the golden waters of the world
Up to the top point of the tower of Time,
Then steep descends — down to the lowest nook
Of furthest space, where earth spins round like clay
Upon the potter's wheel, the orb where bode
The last of happy beings, and the first
Of wretched creatures — semimortal man —
Whose clay was tempered with a lymph divine,

These, by divine permission, to myself
Such secretly confided, to the end
Which ye ere long shall wot of, presently
Seceded, — yet remained on outward terms
With their unshaken brethren as before,
But oh! the absolute excellence was gone,
The plane of pure perfection broken through;
It was as though some galaxy of stars
Had sunk and left a horrid rent in Heaven,
A ragged flaw athwart the sapphirine floor,
A foul chaotic chasm.

Still further spread
As from some central and impulsive point
In ceaseless radiation, day and night,

Her cheek is so pink,
And it don't seem to vary:
Must we say what we think? —
Her cheek is so pink:
From reflections we shrink,
And of comments are chary; —
Her cheek is so pink,
And it don't seem to vary!

There she sits in her box, —
And is Music her passion? —
She's as cross as John Knox;
There she sits in her box.

" But they see one's new frocks,
And it is so the fashion! "
There she sits in her box, —
And is Music her passion?

Who are those by the door? —
Our host and our hostess? —
Never saw them before:
Who are those by the door?
He looks such an old bore, —
She's as white as a " ghostess; "
Who are those by the door? —
Our host !! and our hostess !!!

She's not asked to the Ball,
O, Despair! Desolation!
And it's marked " Very small, "
She's not asked to the Ball:
She has rushed off to call,
But still no invitation!
She's not asked to the Ball,
O, Despair! Desolation!

Not a thousand a year!
What a shock to Belgravia!
She has married , my dear, —
Not a thousand a year!
Did the world ever hear
Of such selfish behaviour?
Not a thousand a year!
What a shock to Belgravia!

Ah! they sit out the dance
In a leaf-hidden corner:
Now is Corydon's chance, —
Ah! they sit out the dance:
See her timorous glance!
He's as pleased as Jack Horner!
Ah! they sit out the dance
In a leaf-hidden corner!