With naught to cheer his close of day Since Laura and his stars were cruel- He fought and perished; Laura sighed, And wiped her eyes, and thus expressed How I did hate that man's moustachios !" Next came the interesting beau, The trifling youth-Frivolio ; Varied his manners-or his clothes, Oh how did Laura love to vex Did he look grave ?—" the fool was sad; Instead of blushing her consent, She "wondered what the blockhead meant." Yet still the fashionable fool Was proud of Laura's ridicule; Though still despised, he still pursued, In ostentatious servitude, Seeming, like lady's lap-dog, vain Of being led by Beauty's chain. He knelt, he gazed, he sighed, and swore, When years had passed, and Laura's frown He hurried from the fallen grace, Constant to nothing was the ass, The next to gain the beauty's ear Was William Lisle, the sonneteer, Well deemed the prince of rhyme and blank; For long and deeply had he drank Of Helicon's poetic tide, Where nonsense flows, and numbers glide; In short-his very footmen know it— He came, and rhymed; he talked of fountains, Of Pindus, and Pierian mountains; Of wandering lambs, of gurgling rills, And roses, and Castalian hills; He thought a lover's vow grew sweeter, And planted every speech with flowers, "Laura, I perish for your sake,❞— (Here he digressed about a lake ;) "Aut insanit homo, aut versus facit."-Hor. "All Bedlam-or Parnassus is let out."-Pope. "The charms thy features all disclose," (A simile about a rose ;) "Have set my very soul on fire,”— (An episode about his lyre ;) 66 Though you despise, I still must love,”— (Something about a turtle dove ;) "Alas! in death's unstartled sleep,”(Just here he did his best to weep ;) "Laura, the willow soon shall wave Over thy lover's lowly grave." Then he began, with pathos due, To speak of cypress, and of rue. But Fortune's unforeseen award Parted the Beauty from the Bard; For Laura, in that evil hour, When unpropitious stars had power, Unmindful of the thanks she owed, Lighted her taper with an ode. Poor William all his vows forgot, And hurried from the fatal spot, In all the bitterness of quarrel, To write lampoons-and dream of laurel. Years fleeted by, and every grace To gratify their secret spite :- We know her waiting-maid is clever, But rouge won't make one young forever; Laura should think of being sage, You know-she's of a certain age.” Her wonted wit began to fail, Her eyes grew dim, her features pale; For Chremes talked too much of stocks, Unhappy Laura! sadness marred What tints of beauty time had spared; For all her wide-extended sway Had faded, like a dream, away; And they that loved her passed her by That silent scorn, that chilling air The fallen tyrant could not bear; She could not live, when none admired, And perished, as her reign expired. VOL. II.-4 |