Marion Dale,--no longer our Marion,-- You have gone your way, and I have gone mine: Lowly I've labored, while fashion's gay clarion Trumpets your name through the waltz and the wine. And when I meet you, your smile it is colder; Statelier, prouder your features have grown; Rounder each white and magnificent shoulder; (Rather too low-necked your waist, I must own.) Jewelled and muslined, your rich hair gold-netted, Queenly 'mid flattering voices you move,-- Half to your own native graces indebted, Half to the station and fortune you love. "Marion" we called you; my wife you called "Alice"; I was plain "Phil";--we were intimate all: Strange, as we leave now our cards at your palace, On Mrs. Prime Goldbanks of Bubblemere Hall! Six golden lackeys illumine the doorway: Sure, one would think, by the glances they throw, That we were fresh from the mountains of Norway, And had forgotten to shake off the snow! They will permit us to enter, however; Usher us into her splendid saloon: There we sit waiting and waiting forever, As one would watch for the rise of the moon. Or it may be to-day's not her "reception": Still she's at home, and a little unbends,-- Framing, while dressing, some harmless deception, How she shall meet her "American" friends. Smiling you meet us,--but not quite sincerely; Low-voiced you greet us,--but this is the _ton_: This, we must feel it, is courtesy merely,-- Not the glad welcome of days that are gone. You are in England,--the land where they freeze one, When they've a mind to, with fashion and form: Yet, if you choose, you can thoroughly please one: Currents run through you still youthful and warm. So one would think, at least, seeing you moving, Radiant and gay, at the Countess's _fête_. Say, was that babble so sweeter than loving? Where was the charm, that you lingered so late? Ah, well enough, as you dance on in joyance! Still well enough, at your dinners and calls! Fashion and riches will mask much annoyance. Float on, fair lady, whatever befalls! Yet, Lady Marion, for hours and for hours You are alone with your husband and lord. There is a skeleton hid in yon flowers; There is a spectre at bed and at board. Needs no confession to tell there is acting Somewhere about you a tragedy grim. All your bright rays have a sullen refracting; Everywhere looms up the image of _him_: Him,--whom you love not, there is no concealing. How _could_ you love him, apart from his gold? Nothing now left but your fire-fly wheeling,-- Flashing one moment, then pallid and cold! Yet you've accepted the life that he offers,-- Sunk to his level,--not raised him to yours. All your fair flowers have their roots in his coffers: Empty the gold-dust, and then what endures?