And here has beat her happy heart; And here have rung her accents glad; And here the darling mused apart,— Oh, precious “room that Sophy had.” And here, perhaps, my image stole, When care unwonted made her sad, And whispered love through all her soul, And cheered “the room that Sophy had.” No palace-hall a queen may pace, With splendor lit—with beauty clad, Would seem so filled with light and grace, As this dear “room that Sophy had.” “You bid me send you all the verses I write. You little dream of the shower that would overwhelm you, were I to comply literally with your request ‘_Nulla die sine linea_,’ is my motto as well as that of the painter of old, and while I sew, or walk, or ride, or lounge, I am forever singing to myself impromptu love-songs, from imaginary damsels to imaginary youths, set to music by a score written in the air, and invisible to all eyes but mine, while a band of aerial musicians play the accompaniment, with my heart, for the leader, beating time. You shall have one of them, dear, and that, I think, will content you for the present— Should all who throng, with gift and song, And for my favor bend the knee, Forsake the shrine, they deem divine, I would not stoop my soul to _thee_! The lips, that breathe the burning vow, By falsehood base unstained must be; The heart, to which mine own shall bow, Must worship Honor more than me! The monarch of a world wert thou, And I a slave on bended knee, Though tyrant chains my form might bow, My _soul_ should never stoop to thee! Until its _hour shall come_, my heart I will possess, serene and free; Though snared to ruin by thine art, ’Twould sooner _break_ than bend to thee!