IV. MY PARTNER. "There is, perhaps, no subject of more universal interest in the whole range of natural knowledge, than that of the unceasing fluctuations which take place in the atmosphere in which we are immersed."-British Almanac. Ar Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fill Of folly and cold water, I danced, last year, my first quadrille, Her cheek with summer's rose might vie, I spoke of novels:-"Vivian Grey" And "Frankenstein" alarming; I said "De Vere" was chastely told, Thought well of "Herbert Lacy," Called Mr. Banim's sketches "bold," And Lady Morgan's "racy;" I vowed that last new thing of Hook's And Laura said "I dote on books, I talked of music's gorgeous fane, Hoped Ronzi would come back again, I wished the chorus singers dumb, "Alas!" my beauteous listener sighed. "We must have rain to-morrow!" I told her tales of other lands; Of ever-boiling fountains, Of poisonous lakes, and barren sands, Vast forests, trackless mountains : I painted bright Italian skies, I lauded Persian Roses, Coined similes for Spanish eyes, And jests for Indian noses; I laughed at Lisbon's love of mass, And Laura asked me where the glass I broached whate'er had gone its rounds, The week before, of scandal; What made Sir Luke lay down his hounds, Why Julia walked upon the heath, How Lord de B. and Mrs. L. Had crossed the sea together; My shuddering partner cried-"O Ciel!" How could they--in such weather?" Was she a Blue?—I put my trust A boudoir pedant ?—I discussed A politician ?--It was vain To quote the morning paper; The horrid phantoms came again, Rain, hail, and snow, and vapor. Flat flattery was my only chance, I envied gloves upon her arm, And shawls upon her shoulder; I don't object to wealth or land; She makes silk purses, broiders stools, Paints screens, subscribes to Sunday schools And sits a horse divinely. But to be linked for life to her! The desperate man who tried it, Might marry a Barometer, (1828.) V.-PORTRAIT OF A LADY. IN THE EXHIBITION OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY. WHAT are you, Lady-naught is here To dub you Whig, or damn you Tory. It is beyond a poet's skill, To form the slightest notion, whether We e'er shall walk through one quadrille, Or look upon one moon together. You're very pretty!-all the world Are talking of your bright brow's splendor, And of your locks, so softly curled, And of your hands, so white and slender: Some think you're blooming in Bengal ; Some say you're blowing in the city; Some know you're nobody at all; I only feel, you're very pretty. But bless my heart! it's very wrong: You're making all our belles ferocious; Anne " never saw a chin so long;". And Laura thinks your dress " atrocious;" |