It could ne'er be those beauties of ivory vignettes; The varied display of a worthless age, Nor puppet-like figures with castonets, That ever an heart like mine could engage. I leave to Gavarni, that poet of chlorosis, His hospital-beauties in troups that whirl, For I cannot discover amid his pale roses A flower to resemble my scarlet ideal. Since, what for this fathomless heart I require Is—Lady Macbeth you! in crime so dire; —An Æschylus dream transposed from the South— Or thee, oh great "Night" of Michael-Angelo born, Who so calmly thy limbs in strange posture hath drawn, Whose allurements are framed for a Titan's mouth.