Goddess of Impudence, Whose tinsel-crowned pretense And shameless eye and cheek of polished brass Rule Young America With all-triumphant sway, The forward school-boy and precocious lass, Whose unweaned mouths smell of their nurses’ milk And others of that ilk-- Inspire my pen, Queen of the groundlings and the Upper Ten, For to thy empire both belong And both deserve a song. What protean power Is thy mysterious dower? Thy wonder-working wand Transmutes all things to gold like Midas’ hand-- All save the _metal_ of thy followers’ _face_, And that is _brass_, we know in every place; Thy favors, where thou dost dispense, Make up for lack of decency and sense; Thy harlot tread Crushes the modest violet in its bed; Truth, wit, and merit are proclaimed a bore, And kicked _sans ceremonie_ from the door; And power, wealth, and fame Are given unto them who know no shame. Thy trophies first are seen In youths and maidens tender, young, and green, Who stalk the streets about Before their doting mothers know they’re out; See how these infant swells Gallant their baby belles, Who know much more Than their mammas found out at twenty-four; They feel the early flame at seven; At nine They languish, sigh, and pine; Till, dying to be wedded at thirteen, A moonlight runaway concludes the scene. The mincing maid, Let loose from school, Hooped, bustled, high-heeled, stayed, Pert as a jay and stubborn as a mule, Proves to the world that she has learned to faint To dip, to lily-white, and paint, And lift her skirts so high That the unwilling eye May see the neatness of her garter’s tie Oh, Impudence; thou hast removed The childish innocence we loved; No more we see The native blush of modesty; Saucy and malapert, The girl a coquette and the boy a flirt; Forward and bold, They honor not the old-- Not even the sire, Who sits unhonored by his cheerless fire-- Too fondly dreaming of the sweet repose Under the grape-vine shadows of Melrose. Nor her who bore the brood, The hissing vipers of ingratitude; But dark and ominous fate Sits like a raven o’er the gate Whence modesty has fled, And Impudence lifts up her brazen head, For Folly’s breath pollutes the air, And Wisdom will not linger there, And all within Bows to the iron rule of ignorance and sin.