And which, or gossip Fame’s a liar,
Still warms the soul with vivid fire;
Still promises a store of bliss
While bigots snatch their Idol’s kiss.
This Mistletoe was doom’d to be
The talisman of Destiny;
Beneath its ample boughs we’re told
Full many a timid Swain grew bold;
Full many a roguish eye askance
Beheld it with impatient glance,