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That suns grow warmer, streamlets clearer,
Pleasant visions,—but alas !
Last, to myself, when night comes round me,
(APRIL 1, 1829.)
Good-night to the Season ! 'tis over!
Gay dwellings no longer are gay; The courtier, the gambler, the lover,
Are scattered like swallows away; There's nobody left to invite one,
Except my good uncle and spouse ; My mistress is bathing at Brighton,
My patron is sailing at Cowes ; For want of a better employment,
Till Ponto and Don can get out, I'll cultivate rural enjoyment,
And angle immensely for trout.
Good-night to the Season ! the lobbies,
Their changes, and rumours of change, Which startled the rustic Sir Bobbies,
And made all the Bishops look strange; The breaches, and battles, and blunders,
Performed by the Commons and Peers; The Marquis's eloquent thunders,
The Baronet's eloquent ears;
Denouncings of Papists and treasons,
Of foreign dominion, and oats; Misrepresentations of reasons,
And misunderstandings of notes.
Good-night to the Season ! the building's
Enough to make Inigo sick; The paintings, and plasterings, and gildings
Of stucco, and marble, and brick; The orders deliciously blended,
From love of effect, into one ;
The palaces only begun;
Sits staring at putty and stones,
To rattle at midnight his bones.
Good-night to the Season! the dances,
The fillings of hot little rooms, The glancings of rapturous glances,
The fancyings of fancy costumes; The pleasures which fashion makes duties,
The praisings of fiddles and flutes, The luxury of looking at beauties,
The tedium of talking to mutes; The female diplomatists, planners
Of matches for Laura and Jane, The ice of her Ladyship’s manners,
The ice of his Lordship’s champagne.
Good-night to the Season! the rages
Led off by the chiefs of the throng,
The L:udy Eliza's new song;
Was held to have something to say ;
Which bark "Batti--Batti !" all day; The pony Sir Araby sported,
As hot and as black as a coal, And the lion his mother imported,
In bearskins and grease, from the Pole.
Good-night to the Season! the Toso,
So very majestic and tall;
And Pasta, divinest of all ;
So sadly deficient in stars ;
Exhaling the breath of cigars;
Environed with exquisites, sits,
The silly ones out of their wits.
Good-night to the Season! the splendor
That beamed in the Spanish bazaar, Where I purchased—my heart was so tender
A card-case, –a pasteboard guitar.
A bottle of perfume,-a girdle,
A lithographed Riego, full-grown, Whom bigotry drew on a hurdle,
That artists might draw him on stone,A small panorama of Seville,
A trap for demolishing flies,— A caricature of the Devil,
And a look from Miss Sheridan's eyes.
Good-night to the Season! the flowers
Of the grand horticultural fête, When boudoirs were quitted for bowers,
And the fashion was, not to be late; When all who had money and leisure
Grew rural o'er ices and wines, All pleasantly toiling for pleasure,
All hungrily pining for pines, And making of beautiful speeches,
And marring of beautiful shows, And feeding on delicate peaches,
And treading on delicate toes.
Good-night to the Season ! another
Will come with its trifles and toys, And hurry away, like its brother,
In sunshine, and odour, and noise. Will it come with a rose, or a brier ?
Will it come with a blessing, or curse? Will its bonnets be lower, or higher ?
Will its morals be better, or worse ?