And Lady Jane, who now and then 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 Cobbett'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? And was your first, unconscious sleep, And where you christened Maud or Mary? And was your father called " your grace ?" And did he fill a score of places? Her brave forefathers wore at Hastings? Where were you 66 finished?" tell me where! Of books and backboard, harp and physic? 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 diffuses? Or do you love to knit and sew, And do you love your brother James? 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, But carelessly you turn away From all the pinks, and all the roses ; Say, is that fond look sent in 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! (1831. THE CHILDE'S DESTINY. "And none did love him—not his lemans dear.”—Byron. No mistress of the hidden skill, "I bind thee with a spell," said she, No woman's love shall light on thee, "And trust me, 'tis not that thy cheek Is colorless and cold; Nor that thine eye is slow to speak What only eyes have told; Hath blushed with passion's kiss, Hath caught its fire from bliss; |