A LETTER OF ADVICE FROM MISS MEDORA TREVILIAN, AT PADUA, TO MISS ARAMINTA VAVASOUR, IN LONDON Enfin, monsieur, un homme aimable ; Voilà pourquoi je ne saurais l'aimer. -SCRIBE. You tell me you're promised a lover, The hue of his coat and his cheek? A vicar, a banker, a beau, Be deaf to your father and mother, Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion, Taught us both how to sing and to speak, And we loved one another with passion, Before we had been there a week: You I gave me a ring for a token; I wear it wherever I go; gave you a chain,—is it broken? My own Araminta, say "No!" O think of our favourite cottage, And think of our dear Lalla Rookh! How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage, And drank of the stream from the brook; How fondly our loving lips faltered "What further can grandeur bestow?" My heart is the same;―is yours altered? My own Araminta, say "No!" Remember the thrilling romances Would picture for both of us then. They wore the red cross on their shoulder, They had vanquished and pardoned their foe; Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder ? My own Araminta, say "No!" You know, when Lord Rigmarole's carriage Drove off with your cousin Justine, You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage, And whispered "How base she has been!" You said you were sure it would kill you, husband looked so; If ever your And you will not apostatize,-will you? When I heard I was going abroad, love, We walked arm in arm to the road, love, We parted! but sympathy's fetters I muse o'er your exquisite letters, And feel that your heart is mine still; If he's not what Orlando should be, love, If he wears a top-boot in his wooing, If he studies the news in the papers While you are preparing the tea, If he does not call Werther delicious, — If he ever sets foot in the City Among the stockbrokers and Jews, If he has not a heart full of pity, If he don't stand six feet in his shoes, If his lips are not redder than roses, If his hands are not whiter than snow, If he has not the model of noses, My own Araminta, say “No!" If he speaks of a tax or a duty, If he does not look grand on his knees, If he's blind to a landscape of beauty, Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees, If he dotes not on desolate towers, If he likes not to hear the blast blow, If he knows not the language of flowers,My own Araminta, say “No!” He must walk-like a god of old story Come down from the home of his rest; He must smile-like the sun in his glory On the buds he loves ever the best; And oh! from its ivory portal Like music his soft speech must flow!— If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal, My own Araminta, say "No!" |