A bright Hyperion, moving stately through
The rosy ether of exalted dreams.
Alas! that love, the purest and most real,
Clusters forever round some form ideal;
And martial things have some strange necromancy
To captivate romantic maiden fancy.
The very word “Lieutenant” hath a charm,
E’en coupled with a vulgar face and form,
A shrivelled heart and microscopic wit,
Scarce for a coachman or a barber fit;