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 They live now, like chameleons, upon air And hope, and such cold, unsubstantial dishes; That they removed, is clear, but when or where None knew. The curious reader, if he wishes, May ask them, but in vain. Where grandeur dwells, The marble dome—the popular rumor tells;

But of the dwelling of the proud and poor, From their own lips the world will never know When better days are gone—it is secure Beyond all other mysteries here below, Except, perhaps, a maiden lady's age, When past the noonday of life's pilgrimage.

Fanny! 'twas with her name my song began; 'Tis proper and polite her name should end it; If, in my story of her woes, or plan Or moral can be traced, 'twas not intended; And if I've wronged her, I can only tell her I'm sorry for it—so is my bookseller.

I met her yesterday—her eyes were wet— She faintly smiled, and said she had been reading