STRAWMAN [rising].
Yes, happily,—in every moral land
Such wares continue to be contraband!
FALK.
Yes, to pass current here, Love must have cross'd
The great Siberian waste of regulations,
Fann'd by no breath of ocean to its cost;
It must produce official attestations
From friend and kindred, devils of relations,
From church curators, organist and clerk,
And other fine folks—over and above
The primal licence which God gave to Love.—
And then the last great point of likeness;—mark
How heavily the hand of culture weighs
Upon that far Celestial domain;
Its power is shatter'd, and its wall decays,
The last true Mandarin's strangled; hands profane
Already are put forth to share the spoil;
Soon the Sun's realm will be a legend vain,
An idle tale incredible to sense;
The world is gray in gray—we've flung the soil
On buried Faery,—then where can Love be found?
Alas, Love also is departed hence!
[Lifts his cup.
Well let him go, since so the times decree;—
A health to Amor, late of Earth,—in tea!
[He drains his cup; indignant murmurs amongst
the company.
MISS JAY.
A very odd expression! "Dead" indeed!
THE LADIES.
To say that Love is dead—!
STRAWMAN.
Why, here you see
Him sitting, rosy, round and sound, at tea,
In all conditions! Here in her sable weed
The widow—
MISS JAY.
Here a couple, true and tried,—
STIVER.
With many ample pledges fortified.
GULDSTAD.
The Love's light cavalry, of maid and man,
The plighted pairs in order—
STRAWMAN.
In the van
The veterans, whose troth has laughed to scorn
The tooth of Time—
MISS JAY [hastily interrupting].
And then the babes new-born—
The little novices of yester-morn—