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Look how a blush of burning red
Now gallantry is busy round! All eyes are bent upon the ground; And dancers leave the cheerful measure To seek the lady's missing treasure. Meanwhile some charitable Miss, Quite ignorant what envy is, Sends slowly forth her censures grave“How oddly beauties will behave! Oh! quite an accident !-last year I think she sprain'd her ancle here; And then there were such sudden halts, And such a bringing out of salts!"“ You think her vain ?” “Oh, gracious! no! She has a charming foot, you know; And it's so pretty to be lameI don't impute the slightest blameVol. II.—3
Only that very careless braid !-
The Sun hath risen o’er the deep, And fathers, more than half asleep, Begin to shake the drowsy head, And hint “it's time to be in bed.” Then comes chagrin on faces fair; Soft hands are clasped in mimic prayer; And then the warning watch is shown, And answers in a harsher tone Reply to look of lamentation, And argument, and supplication ; In vain sweet voices tell their grief, In speeches long, for respite brief; Bootless are all their “Lord !”s and “La !"8, Their “Pray, Papa !”s and “Do, Papa !”s; “ Ladies,” quoth Gout, “I love my rest! The carriage waits!—eundum est.” This is the hour for parting bow, This is the hour for secret vow, For weighty shawl, and hooded cloak, Half-utter'd tale, and whisperd joke. This is the hour when ladies bright Relate the adventures of the night,
And fly by turns from truth to fiction,
The music stops,—the lights expire,– The dance is o'er,—the crowds retire ; And all those smiling cheeks have flown! Away !—the rhymer is alone. Thou, too, the fairest and the best, Hast fleeted from him with the rest; Thy name he will not, love! unite To the rude strain he pours to night; Yet often hath he turned away Amidst his harsh and wandering lay, And often hath his earnest eye Look'd into thine delightedly, And often hath his listening ear But thou art gone !-what doth he here? TO JULIO,
ON HIS COMING OF AGE.
Julio, while Fancy's tints adorn
Count o'er the friends, whom erst you knew When careless boyhood deem'd them true, With whom you wiled the lazy hours Round fond Etona's classic towers, Or strayed beside the learned mud Of ancient Cam's meandering flood; The follies that in them you view, Shall be a source of good to you.
With mincing gait, and foreign air,