But only, mark you, to delight us,
Unlike the cruel Emperor Titus.
O'ercome by harmony's aroma,
I sink into a blissful coma,
Until, my ecstasy to crown,
The infant lays his baton down.
From the Equator to the Poles
Thy fame in widening circles rolls;
But once the audience leave the hall
Thy pop-gun claims thee, or thy ball.