Her voice is glad as an April bird's,

    And when the tale is of war and wrong,

    A trumpet's summons is in her words,

    And the rush of the hosts I seem to hear,

    And see the tossing of plume and spear!

    Oh, pity me then, when, day by day,

    The stout fiend darkens my parlor door;

    And reads me perchance the self-same lay

    Which melted in music, the night before,

    From lips as the lips of Hylas sweet,

    And moved like twin roses which zephyrs meet!

    I cross my floor with a nervous tread,

    I whistle and laugh and sing and shout,

    I flourish my cane above his head,

    And stir up the fire to roast him out;

    I topple the chairs, and drum on the pane,

    And press my hands on my ears, in vain!

    I've studied Glanville and James the wise.

    And wizard black-letter tomes which treat

    Of demons of every name and size

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