"Beauty no more will flash a-wing,
Music no more full-throated flush.
Fashion will curse the fields of Spring
With the Winter's hush.
XII.
"I saw poor bird-beaks in that room
With fruitless warning gaping wide;
And the lady wore their stolen plumes
With a cruel pride.
XIII.
"'The Feathered Woman' was she hight;
But all reproof, compassion-born,
The modish Belle Dame sans Merci
Doth laugh to scorn.
XIV.
"What plea for beauty or for song,
Or simple prudence, may she reck,
While Fashion rules she with mixed plumes
Her head must deck?
XV.
"The birds in myriads may die,
Till earth is all a songless hush;
But she upon her crest must sport
A feathered-brush!
XVI.