[A very small space will suffice for the present illustration. The poet must be figured at his desk inditing an epistle, commencing with “My dear Lord.” Volumes of poetry that exhibit signs of having been read over and over again are thrown in profusion about him, mingled with which are some biographies that seem to have been cast aside with many of the leaves uncut. Invitations to dinner are piled before him, with some resolutions proposing him as President of the Silver Fork Club.]
There’s a beauty as bright as the sunshine of youth,
Or the halo that beams round the temples of truth;
An odour like that from the spring-lily thrown
When a breathing from Araby blends with its own.
But the lustre is not on that Peeress’s hair,
Though gems and a circlet of gold glisten there;
And the odour is not by that Exquisite cast,
Though his robe left a scent on the air as he pass’d.
This odour, ’tis not from the Abbey at all,