For song, in youth, my pulse beat quick,
For song, in age, beats quicker;
Applauding all, through thin and thick,
I shame Bray's veering Vicar
On every voice, when most in vogue,
My glad attention lingers;
And Leporello's catalogue
Echoes my taste in singers.

At twenty-one, as mad as he
Who rode on Rozinante,
Chain'd to the car of harmony,
I bow'd to haughty Banti
My senses all absorb'd in sound,
I sang “Ah! mia cara,”
And raved; till suddenly I found
My antidote in Mara.

Mara I swore to woo for life;
But; when she sang in Polly,
Her English, as the Robber's Wife,
Reliev'd me of my folly.
By Mara's pipe no longer fired,
I lived uncharm'd by any;
Till, conquer'd by the “Soldier Tired,”
In Billington's Mandané.

Destined, ere long, again to veer,
As fickle as Giovanni;
Fate, to enthral me, made appear
Majestic Catalani.
Forth from my pocket her half notes
Extracted my half guineas,
Pour'd from the first of human throats,
Till—follow'd by Grassini's.

Grassini's mournful Proserpine
Was now my heart's new pattern.
Oh! how I wish'd my lot were thine,
Contr'alto, son of Saturn!
Light Bolla, with her laughing eye,
Then drove me nearly crazy,
Till soothed by the sobriety
Of quiet Camporese.

Ronzi de Begnis' better half
Then ruled, till jocund Fodor
Came forward with her easy laugh,
And put her out of odour
Sontag ruled next, and ruled me long,
Fair fav'rite of Apollo;
Till Malibran, the Queen of Song,
Beat baffled Sontag hollow.

Last in the scale, “though last not least,”
To make my heart uneasy,
Prime dainty in Euterpe's feast,
Comes all-accomplish'd Grisi.
Her magic notes make sorrow flit,
And Care his wrinkles soften;
But, since the stalls have spoilt the pit,
I fail to hear them often.

The pit, of yore, the acts between,
A lounge, a quiet ramble,
Is now a bear-garden—a scene
Of rude and noisy scramble
Drawn thither from their sylvan haunt
By Orpheus—who can blame 'em?
Tigers are charm'd—I only want
The new police to tame 'em!