oh muse of my heart—so fond of palaces old,

wilt have—when new year speeds its wintry blast,

amid those tedious nights, with snow o'ercast,

a log to warm thy feet, benumbed with cold?

wilt thou thy marbled shoulders then revive

with nightly rays that through thy shutters peep?

and—void thy purse and void thy palace—reap

a golden hoard within some azure hive?

thou must, to earn thy daily bread, each night,

suspend the censer like an acolyte,

te-deums sing, with sanctimonious ease,

or as a famished mountebank, with jokes obscene

essay to lull the vulgar rabble's spleen;

thy laughter soaked in tears which no one sees.