University of Virginia Library

VI.

Who are the princes—the work-girl thought—
That dwell in this palace by Genii wrought?
She looked, and beheld some dozen or ten
Young and excessively nice young men;
Their faces were beardless, rosy, and fair,
An astonishing curl was in their hair,
Their feet were squeezed into shiny boots,
Their nails were pink, and white at the roots,
Their hands were as taper, their limbs as fine,
As an Arab maiden's in Palestine;
Their waistcoats were miracles to behold,
Ribbed with velvet and flecked with gold;
And perfect rivers of watch-chain ran
Over the breast of each nice young man.
But you could not see in a single face
Of courage or manhood the faintest trace;
Through every feature the sentiment ran,
“If you please, I would rather not be a man!”
One of them sat in an easy chair,
With smirking, impudent, indolent air,
Blandly explaining, with smile serene,
The merits of Cantator's sewing-machine;
While others lounged through the gorgeous room,
Diffusing the odors of Lubin's perfume,
Or gossiping over the last new play,
Or their “spree” last week—and “Was n't it gay?”
But the crowd at the windows thought them sublime
And wished that they had such an easy time.
As the work-girl gazed at this splendid array
Of Cantator's youths on show in Broadway,
She gathered her shawl round her wasted form,
While her breath congealed on the window-panes warm,
And sighed, “Ah me! ah me! ah me!
This is the place where I should be!”