In each, I ween, some ocean-spirit dwells:
Pluck we the first. It's pearly depths behold!
What hues of crimson, em'rald, azure, gold!
[Oh! crikey, Bill; vot a conch that lady's got!]
Alas! I'm but a hapless child of earth;
I cannot stray where syren songs of mirth
Are heard in coral bowers with pearls bedight;
On me sweet Fortune never smiled so bright!
[Try your luck, marm, in the Lottery? A musical box, two paper nautiluses, and a piece of the wreck of the Royal George. Only von shilling a ticket, and only two numbers wacant.]
Ofttimes at eve, when the pale moon shines clear,