But breathes round the banquet in Westminster Hall;
This light, that outsparkles the courtliest class,
Is the dazzling of dishes, the glitter of glass.
Let, let but that lustre encircle me still!
’Tis the true light of love, we may say what we will.
Oh! give me a breath of that odour sublime,
It is worth all the flowers perfuming my rhyme.
* * * * *
No banquet, dear Lansdowne? no banquet to-day!
You cannot mean that!—I’ll appeal then to Grey.