The Rahab lap piled high with gems and flowers,
The Circe draught proffered by Pleasure’s priest,
Which lures the eager lip, and leaves the man—a beast,
But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song,
Who ’midst this city lived the life called “fast”?
Doth he upon his pillow tarry long?
He comes no more—those flutterings were his last;
The butterfly is stricken, netted, cast,
Wing-bruised, bloom-robbed aside, a thing that was;
To-day a phantasy, not to be classed