A bit of amber, polished on the palm
Of a fair Lady, lifted to light gloss
Of silken strings [?] o’er her bosom calm,
And moved a little wonder were it was,
A moment’s idle toying, and the thought,—
“’Tis curious, certs[?], but it imports naught
What stirs the dawn a faintest breath can toss
Is all to slight a marker to be sought.”
Today the genie of that ancient play
Leaps with my voice across the continent
Hurls ponderous engines on their iron way,
And fills with splendor midnight’s ebon tent[?];
For Power’s least pulse betrays it to the wise
Who chained the giant veiled in his minute disguise!
