Yes, to pass current here, Love must have cross’d The great Siberian waste of regulations, Fann’d by no breath of ocean to its cost; It must produce official attestations From friends and kindred, devils of relations, From church curators, organist and clerk, And other fine folks—over and above The primal licence which God gave to Love.— And then the last great point of likeness;—mark How heavily the hand of culture weighs Upon that far Celestial domain; Its power is shatter’d, and its wall decays, The last true Mandarin’s strangled; hands profane Already are put forth to share the spoil; Soon the Sun’s realm will be a legend vain, An idle tale incredible to sense; The world is gray in gray—we’ve flung the soil On buried Faery,—we have made her mound. But if we have,—then where can Love be found? Alas, Love also is departed hence! [_Lifts his cup._ Well let him go, since so the times decree;— A health to Amor, late of Earth,—in tea! [_He drains his cup; indignant murmurs amongst the company._ MISS JAY. A very odd expression! “Dead” indeed! THE LADIES. To say that Love is dead—! STRAWMAN. Why, here you see Him sitting, rosy, round and sound, at tea, In all conditions! Here in her sable weed The widow— MISS JAY. Here a couple, true and tried,— STIVER. With many ample pledges fortified. GULDSTAD. Then Love’s light cavalry, of maid and man, The plighted pairs in order— STRAWMAN. In the van The veterans, whose troth has laughed to scorn The tooth of Time— MISS JAY [_hastily interrupting_]. And then the babes new-born— The little novices of yester-morn— STRAWMAN. Spring, summer, autumn, winter, in a word, Are here; the truth is patent, past all doubt, It can be clutched and handled, seen and heard,— FALK. What then? MISS JAY. And yet you want to thrust it out! FALK.