While he bethought him how more blest its glow
Than that he left one single hour ago,
Where proud rooms, heated by a feverish light,
Forced vice and villainy upon his sight;
Where snared himself, or snaring into crime,
His soul had drowned its hour, and lost its count of time.
'The syren-sighs and smiles were banished now,
The cares of "play" had vanished from his brow;
He took his Mary's hot hand in his own,
She raised her eyes, and—oh, how soft they shone!