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But give him a theme to write verse on,

And see if he turns out his toe ;If he's only an excellent person,

My own Araminta, say “No!”





DEAR Alice! you'll laugh when you know it,

Last week, at the Duchess's ball, I danced with the clever new poet,

You've heard of him,--Tully St. Paul. Miss Jonquil was perfectly frantic;

I wish you had seen Lady Anne! It really was very romantic,

He is such a talented man!

He came up from Brazen Nose College,

Just caught, as they call it, this spring;
And his head, love, is stuffed full of knowledge

Of every conceivable thing.
Of science and logic he chatters,

As fine and as fast as he can;
Though I am no judge of such matters,

I'm sure he's a talented man.

His stories and jests are delightful;

Not stories or jests, dear, for you; The jests are exceedingly spiteful,

The stories not always quite true.

Perhaps to be kind and veracions

May do pretty well at Lausanne;
But it never would answer,--good gracious!

Chez nous--in a talented man.

He sneers,—how my Alice would scold him!

At the bliss of a sigh or a tear;
He laughed-only think!--when I told him

How we cried o'er Trevelyan last year ;
I vow I was quite in a passion;

I broke all the sticks of my fan; But sentiment's quite out of fashion,

It seems, in a talented man.

Lady Bab, who is terribly moral,

Has told me that Tully is vain, And apt—which is silly—to quarrel,

And fond—which is sad—of champagne. I listened, and doubted, dear Alice,

For I saw, when my Lady began, It was only the Dowager's malice;

She does hate a talented man!

He's hideous, I own it. But fame, love,

Is all that these eyes can adore;
He's lame,—but Lord Byron was lame, love,

And dumpy,—but so is Tom Moore.
Then his voice,--such a voice! my sweet creature,

It's like your Aunt Lucy's toucan: But oh! what's a tone or a feature, When once one's a talented man?

My mother, you know, all the season,

Has talked of Sir Geoffrey's estate ; And truly, to do the fool reason,

He has been less horrid of late. But to-day, when we drive in the carriage,

I'll tell her to lay down her plan ;If ever I venture on marriage,

It must be a talented man!

P. S.—I have found, on reflection,

One fault in my friend,—entre nous ;
Without it, he'd just be perfection ;-

Poor fellow, he has not a sou !
And so, when he comes in September

To shoot with my uncle, Sir Dan,
I've promised mamma to remember

He's only a talented man!


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“Comment! c'est lui? que je le regarde encore ! C'est que vraiment il est bien changé; n'est ce pas, mon papa ?”

Les Premiers Amours.

You'll come to our ball;—since we parted,

I've thought of you more than I'll say ; Indeed I was half broken-hearted

For a week, when they took you away. Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers

Our walks on the Ness and the Den, And echoed the musical numbers

Which you used to sing to me then. I know the romance, since it's over,

'Twere idle, or worse, to recall ;I know you're a terrible rover;

But, Clarence, you'll come to our Ball !

It's only a year since, at College,

You put on your cap and your gown;
But, Clarence, you're grown out of knowledge,

And changed from the spur to the crown:

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