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And Lady Jane, who now and then
Is taken for the village steeple, Is sure you can't be four feet ten,
And“ wonders at the taste of people.”
Soon pass the praises of a face;
Swift fades the very best vermillion ; Fame rides a most prodigious pace;
Oblivion follows on the pillion; And all, who, in these sultry rooms,
To-day have stared, and pushed, and fainted, Will soon forget your pearls and plumes,
As if they never had been painted.
You'll be forgotten-as old debts
By persons who are used to borrow; Forgotten-as the sun that sets,
When shines a new one on the morrow; Forgotten-like the luscious peach,
That blessed the school-boy last September; Forgotten—like a maiden speech,
Which all men praise, but none remember.
Yet, ere you sink into the stream,
That whelms alike, sage, saint, and martyr, And soldier's sword, and minstrel's theme,
And Canning's wit, and Gatton's charter, Here of the fortunes of your youth
My fancy weaves her dim conjectures, Which have, perhaps, as much of truth
As Passion's vows, or Cohbett's lectures.
Was't in the north or in the south,
That summer-breezes rocked your cradle? And had you in your baby mouth
A wooden or a silver ladle ?
By Brownie banned, or blessed by fairy ? And did you wake to laugh or weep?
And where you christened Maud or Mary ?
And was your father called “your grace ?"
And did he bet at Ascot races ? And did he chat at common-place ?
And did he fill a score of places ? And did your lady-mother's charias
Consist in picklings, broilings, bastings? Or did she prate about the arms
Her brave forefathers wore at Hastings?
Where were you “finished ?" tell me where !
Was it at Chelsea, or at Chiswick ? Had you th:c ordinary share
Of books and backboard, harp and physic? And did they bid you banish pride,
And mind your oriental tinting? And did you learn how Dido died,
And who found out the art of printing?
And are you fond of lanes and brooks,
A votary of the sylvan muses? Or do you con the little books
Which Baron Brougham and Vaux diffirses ? Or do you love to knit and sew,
The fashionable world's Arachne ? Or do you canter down the Row,
Upon a very long-tailed hackney ?
And do you love your brother James ?
And do you pet his mares and setters? And have your friends romantic names ?
And do you write them long, long letters? And are you --since tẢe world began
All women are—a little spiteful ? And don't you dote on Malibran ?
And don't you think Tom Moore delightful ?
I see they've brought you flowers to-day,
Delicious food for eyes and noses; But carelessly you turn away
From all the pinks, and all the roses; Say, is that fond look sent iu search
Of one whose look as fondly answers ? And is he, fairest, in the Church,
Or is he-ain't he--in the Lancers ?
And is your love a motley page
Of black and white, half joy, half sorrow? Are you to wait till you're of age ?
Or are you to be his to-morrow? Or do they bid you, in their scorn,
Your pure and sinless flame to smother? Is he so very meanly born ?
Or are you married to another ? .
Whate'er you are, at last, adieu !
I think it is your bounden duty To let the rhymes I coin for you,
Be prized by all who prize your beauty. From you I seek nor gold nor fame;
From you I fear no cruel strictures; I wish some girls that I could name
Were half as silent as their pictures!
THE CHILDE'S DESTINY.
“And none did love him-not his lemans dear."-Byron.
No mistress of the hidden skill,
No wizard gaunt and grim,
To read the stars for him;
Of vine-encircled France
Her philosophic glance:
“I sign thee with a sign;
No woman's heart be thine!
" And trust me, 'tis not that thy cheek
Is colorless and cold;
What only eyes have told;
Hath blushed with passion's kiss,
Hath caught its fire from bliss ;