The End Of A Charade Poem by Henry Alford

Ladies, our first and second are before you:
We shall not act our whole, for fear it bore you.
We would not have (the thing speaks for itself)
Your kind attention laid upon the shelf.
Still, though not seen, it shall be duly heard:
So by this brief description, guess the word.
In every house, a canopy of state
Towers high above the ashes of the grate:
Of rarest stone, or polished marble fine,
Our builders raise the monumental shrine.
Nor lacks there worship. Each chill morning sees
The solitary priestess bend her knees,
With rapid arm her sable gift bestow,
Till all the niche with living lustre glow,--
Then bid the sulphurous fumes of incense rise,
Through devious tube--work, to the grateful skies,
Nor less the assembled household through the day
Throng reverent, and obsequious honours pay:
Oft you may see them in devoted row,
Elbows above, and roasting knees below,
Or when the flames grow bright, or flicker dim,
Or seething waters hum their mystic hymn.
Ladies, our task is done, our riddle told:
Let each fair sage its mystic depths unfold.