The moon is charming; so, perhaps, Are pretty maidens in mob-caps; But, when a ball is in the case, They're both a little out of place.
I love a ball! there's such an air
Of magic in the lustres' glare,
And such a spell of witchery
In all I hear and all I see,
That I can read in every dance
Some relic sweet of old romance:
As fancy wills I laugh and smile,
And talk such nonsense all the while
That when Dame Reason rules again,
And morning cools my heated brain,
Reality itself doth seem
Nought but the pageant of a dream;
In raptures deep I gaze, as now,
On smiling lip and tranquil brow,
While merry voices echo round,
And music's most inviting sound
Swells on mine ear; the glances fly,
And love and folly flutter high,
And many a fair romantic cheek,
Reddened with pleasure or with pique,
Glows with a sentimental flush
That seems a bright unfading blush;
And slender arms before my face
Are rounded with a statue's grace;
And ringlets wave, and beauteous feet,
Swifter than lightning, part and meet;
Frowns come and go; white hands are pressed,
And sighs are heard, and secrets guessed,
And looks are kind, and eyes are bright,
And tongues are free, and hearts are light.
Sometimes upon the crowd I look,
Secure in some sequestered nook;
And while from thence I look and listen,
Though ladies' eyes so gaily glisten,
Though ladies' locks so lightly float,
Though music pours her mellowed note,
Some little spite will oft intrude
Upon my merry solitude.
By turns the ever-varying scene Awakes within me mirth and spleen; By turns the gay and vain appear; By turns I love to smile and sneer, Mixing my malice with my glee, Good humour with misanthropy; And while my raptured eyes adore Half the bright forms that flit before, I notice with a little laugh
The follies of the other half.
That little laugh will oft call down,
From matron sage, rebuke and frown;
Little, in truth, for these I care:
By Momus and his mirth I swear,
For all the dishes Rowley tastes,
For all the paper Courtenay wastes,
For all the punch his subjects quaff,
I would not change that little laugh!1
Shall I not laugh, when every fool
Comes hither for my ridicule,
Hoc ridere meum, tam nil, nullâ tibi vendo
When ev'ry face that flits to-night
In long review before my sight
Shows off, unasked, its airs and graces,
Unconscious of the mirth it raises ?
Skilled to deceive our ears and eyes
By civil looks and civil lies,
Skilled from the search of men to hide
His narrow bosom's inward pride,
And charm the blockheads he beguiles
By uniformity of smiles,
The County Member, bright Sir Paul,
Is Primo Buffo at the Ball.
Since first he longed to represent
His fellow-men in Parliament,
Courted the cobblers and their spouses,
And sought his honours in mud houses,
Full thirty springs have come and fled;
And though from off his shining head
The twin destroyers, Time and Care,
Begin to pluck its fading hair,
Yet where it grew, and where it grows,
Lie powder's never-varying snows,
And hide the havoc years have made
In kind monotony of shade.
Sir Paul is young in all but years;
And, when his courteous face appears,
The maiden wall-flowers of the room
Admire the freshness of his bloom,
Hint that his face has made him vain,
And vow "he grows a boy again,"
And giddy girls of gay fifteen
Mimic his manner and his mien;
And when the supple politician
Bestows his bow of recognition,
Or forces on th' averted ear
The flattery it affects to fear,
They look, and laugh behind the fan, And dub Sir Paul "the young old man."
Look! as he paces round, he greets
With nod and simper all he meets:
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