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He came, the Ghost of beauty and of health,
The Wreck of gaiety! But soon revived
In strength, in power refitted, he renewed
His suit to Fortune; and she smiled again
Upon a fickle Ingrate. Thrice he rose,
Thrice sunk as willingly. For He, whose nerves
Were used to thrill with pleasure, while his voice
Softly accompanied the tuneful harp,
By the nice finger of fair Ladies, touched
In glittering Halls, was able to derive
Not less enjoyment from an abject choice.
Who happier for the moment?—Who more blithe
Than this fallen Spirit; in those dreary Holds
His Talents lending to exalt the freaks
Of merry-making Beggars,—now, provoked
To laughter multiplied in louder peals
By his malicious wit; then, all enchained
With mute astonishment, themselves to see
In their own arts outdone, their fame eclipsed,
As by the very presence of the Fiend
Who dictates and inspires illusive feats,
For knavish purposes! The City, too,
(With shame I speak it) to her guilty bowers
