This coming clown.—To think of him I blush’d—
But what of her?—of Edith?—She would live,
With faintest smile, to fascinate—ah—crowds!
The rabble would be ravish’d but, forsooth,
To clap with crazy hands the rarer air
Wherein she moved. For them, her voice would sound,
With every trill so swaying all who heard
That thronging cheers would thunder in response!—
Her form, so sweet, would plead till foulest lives
Would feel how pure were joys beyond their reach,