She whirls in no mad dances dervishly,
Nor with incantatory crooning charms
Her hapless slaves, who yet would not be free
While with a conq’ring smile she soothes, disarms,
Born of some slight neglect, their fears, doubts and alarms.
She has no wand nor needs one. Her demesne
Is ev’ry drawing-room. A slender chair
Be-carved and gilt, her throne that any queen
Might wish to sit upon. About her there
They crowd, the subjects of this guileless fair,