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.