On mirrors and flowers, and paintings old,
And side-boards heaped with vessels of gold;
Proud, stately men and women most fair,
Glitt'ring in toilets, marvellous, rare.

Sharp grief may torture many a heart,
But its pangs are hid with wond'rous art;
Breasts may harbor hate, envy or guile,
But all is concealed 'neath the studied smile;
And carelessly gay is each well-trained face,
As the dancers flash past with magic grace.

Not far away, down yon narrow lane,
Where poverty herds with guilt and pain,
Are _homes_ where the wind finds entrance free,
Searching each cranny with savage glee,
And freezing the blood of those within,
Through their wretched garments, scant and thin.

List to the music that meets the ear!
No sweet strains of _Strauss_ will greet you here,
But the moan of sickness, the feeble wail
Of suff'ring childhood--of mothers pale,
The groan of despair, or, alas, still worse!
The blasphemous jest, or fierce, deep curse.

See! on yon board is their banquet spread,
Coarse broken remnants of mouldy bread;
No cheerful flame in the fire-place bare
To temper the cold of the biting air,