Your course has been a conqueror’s through life;
You have been followed, flattered and caressed;
Soul after soul has laid upon your shrine
Its first, fresh, dewy bloom of love for incense:
The minstrel-girl has tuned for you her lute,
And set her life to music for your sake;
The opera-belle, with blush unwonted, starts
At your name’s casual mention, and forgets,
For one strange moment, fashion’s cold repose;
The village maiden’s conscious heart beats time