In politics, though prudently withdrawn From the public service, which he held in scorn, As being unworthy the deliberate zeal Of one with head to think or heart to feel; And being neither priest, nor soldier, nor Versed in the practice of Canonic lore, He made his counsels felt and privately Lent his best influence to "the Powers that be,"-- Counsels the better valued that he stood Alone among the youth of stirring blood, And bowed not to that Baal his proud knee, The national false goddess, Italy. He was too stubborn in his Roman pride To trick out this young strumpet as a bride, And held in classic scorn who would become Less than a Roman citizen in Rome. A man of heart besides and that light wit Which leavens all, even pedantry's conceit. None better knew than he the art to shew A little less in talk than all he knew. His manner too, and voice, and countenance, Imposed on all, and these he knew to enhance By certain freedoms and simplicities Of language, which set all his world at ease. A very peer and prince and paragon, Griselda thought, Rome's latest, worthiest son, An intellectual phœnix. On her night A sudden dawn had broke, portentous, bright. Her soul had found its fellow. From the day Of their first meeting on the Appian Way, Beside Metella's tomb, where they had discussed The doubtful merit of a new found bust, And had agreed to differ or agree, I know not which, a hidden sympathy Had taken root between them. Either mind Found in the other tokens of its kind Which spoke in more than words, and naturally Leaned to its fellow-mind as tree to tree. Lord L., who had known the prince in other days, While riding home had spoken in his praise, And won Griselda's heart and patient smile, For divers threadbare tales of blameless guile Among the virtuosi, where the prince Had played his part with skill and influence, His sworn ally. Lord L. grew eloquent, Finding her ears such rapt attention lent, And could have gone on talking all his life About his friend's perfections to his wife.