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190 That  had better ‘tarry
 * At Jericho until his beard was grown,’

And like his eagle wear upon his wings Feathers, before he proffered wedding-rings; That purpling grapes looked lovely on their vines, But she preferred them perfected in wines; That on my cheek the down was fair to see, But she admired the full-blown favoris, And rather liked in men a modest pride Of mustache—if artistically dyed.”

She then, dismissing me in queenly state, Locked of her Eden the unfeeling gate, And I—a victim to Love’s cruel dart, Went—to the Opera—with a broken heart!

Along thy peopled solitude—Broadway! I walked, a desolate man, day after day, With downcast eyes and melancholy brow,
 * Until a lady’s letter asked me why

I passed her ladyship without a bow;
 * To which I sent the following reply,
 * My earliest-born attempt at poetry:

The heart hath sorrows of its own,
 * And griefs it veils from all,

And tears, close-hidden from the world,
 * In solitude will fall;