Is it a study for a Peer To breathe soft vows in lady's ear, Far nobler studies shall be thineSo Friendship and the Muse divine: It shall be thine, in danger's hour, To guide the helm of British power, And, midst thy country's laurelled crown, To mix a garland all thine own. Julio, from this auspicious day, New honours gild thine onward way; In thee Posterity shall view A heart to faith and feeling true, And Fame her choicest wreaths shall blend For Virtue's, and the poor man's friend. TO JULIA, PREPARING FOR HER FIRST SEASON IN TOWN. JULIA, while London's fancied bliss Bids you despise a life like this, While Chiswick and its joys you leave, For hopes that flatter to deceive, You will not scornfully refuse (Though dull the theme, and weak the Muse) To look upon my line, and hear What Friendship sends to Beauty's ear. Four miles from Town, a neat abode A brace of globes peep out for show; 'Twas here, in earlier, happier days, Retired from Pleasure's weary maze, You found, unknown to care or pain, The peace you will not find again. Here Friendships, far too fond to last, A bright, but fleeting radiance cast On every sport that Mirth devised, And every scene that Childhood prized, And every bliss, that bids you yet Recall those moments with regret. Those friends have mingled in the strife That fills the busy scene of life, And Pride and Folly-Cares and Fears, Look dark upon their future years: But by their wrecks may Julia learn Whither her fragile bark to turn; And, o'er the troubled sea of Fate, Avoid the rocks they found too late. You know Camilla: o'er the plain She guides the fiery hunter's rein; First in the chase she sounds the horn, Trampling to earth the farmer's corn, That hardly deigned to bend its head, Beneath her namesake's lighter tread. With Bob the Squire, her polished lover, She wields the gun, or beats the cover; And then her steed!-why! every clown Tells how she rubs Smolensko down, At night, before the Christmas fire, She plays backgammon with the Squire; Shares in his laugh, and in his liquor, Mimics her father and the Vicar; Swears at the grooms-without a blush Dips in her ale the captured brush. Until her father duly tiredThe parson's wig as duly firedThe dogs all still-the Squire asleep, And dreaming of his usual leapShe leaves the dregs of white and red, And lounges languidly to bed; And still, in nightly visions borne, She gallops o'er the rustic's corn; Still wields the lash-still shakes the box, Dreaming of "sixes"-and the fox. And this is bliss! The story runs, Camilla never wept-save once, Yes! once indeed Camilla cried'Twas when her dear Blue-stockings died. Pretty Cordelia thinks she's illShe seeks her med'cine at Quadrille; With hope, and fear, and envy sick, She gazes on the dubious trick, Upon a diamond, or a spade. And I have seen a transient pique Turn we to Fannia-she was fair Her lip has lost its fragrant dew, Her heart the ignorance of woe Which Fashion's votaries may not know. |