Grace in her every motion;
I wasted all a stripling's lore,
Prayer, passion, folly, feeling,
And wildly looked upon the floor,
And wildly on the ceiling;
I envied gloves upon her arm,
And shawls upon her shoulder;
And when my worship was most warm,
She "never found it colder."

I don't object to wealth or land;
And she will have the giving
Of an extremely pretty hand,

Some thousands, and a living.
She makes silk purses, broiders stools,
Sings sweetly, dances finely,

Paints screens, subscribes to Sunday schools, And sits a horse divinely.

But to be linked for life to her!

The desperate man who tried it,

Might marry a Barometer,

And hang himself beside it!

(1828.)

V.-PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

IN THE EXHIBITION OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY.

WHAT are you, Lady?-naught is here
To tell us of your name or story;
To claim the gazer's smile or tear,

To dub you Whig, or damn your Tory.
It is beyond a poet's skill

To form the slightest notion, whether We e'er shall walk through one quadrille, Or look upon one moon together.

You're very pretty!-all the world

Are talking of your bright brow's splendour, And of your locks, so softly curled,

And of your hands, so white and slender ·
Some think you're blooming in Bengal;
Some say you're blowing in the city ;
Some know you're nobody at all
I only feel, you're very pretty.

But bless my heart! it's very wrong:
You're making all our belles ferocious;
Anne "never saw a chin so long;"

And Laura thinks your dress "atrocious;"

And Lady Jane, who now and then

Is taken for the village steeple, Is sure you can't be four feet ten,

And "wonders at the taste of people."

Soon pass the praises of a face;

Swift fades the very best vermilion;
Fame rides a most prodigious pace;
Oblivion follows on the pillion;
And all who, in these sultry rooms,

To-day have stared, and pushed, and fainted,

Will soon forget your pearls and plumes,
As if they never had been painted.

You'll be forgotten-as old debts

By persons who are used to borrow; Forgotten as the sun that sets,

When shines a new one on the morrow Forgotten-like the luscious peach,

That blessed the school-boy last September; Forgotten-like a maiden speech,

Which all men praise, but none remember.

Yet, ere you sink into the stream,

That whelms alike sage, saint, and martyr, And soldier's sword, and minstrel's theme, And Canning's wit, and Gatton's charter, Here of the fortunes of your youth

My fancy weaves her dim conjectures,

Which have, perhaps, as much of truth
As Passion's vows, or Cobbett's lectures.

Was't in the north or in the south,
That summer-breezes rocked your cradle?
And had you in your baby mouth

A wooden or a silver ladle?

And was your first, unconscious sleep,
By brownie banned, or blessed by fairy?
And did you wake to laugh or weep?

And were you christened Maud or Mary?

And was your father called "your grace?”
And did he bet at Ascot races?
And did he chat at common-pláce?
And did he fill a score of places?
And did your lady-mother's charms
Consist in picklings, broilings, bastings?
Or did she prate about the arms

Her brave forefathers wore at Hastings?

Where were you "finished?" tell me where ! Was it at Chelsea, or at Chiswick?

Had you the ordinary share

Of books and backboard, harp and physic? And did they bid you banish pride, And mind your oriental tinting? And did you learn how Dido died,

And who found out the art of printing?

And are you fond of lanes and brooks,

A votary of the sylvan muses?

Or do you con the little books

Which Baron Brougham and Vaux diffuses?

Or do you love to knit and sew,

The fashionable world's Arachne? Or do you canter down the Row, Upon a very long-tailed hackney?

And do you love your brother James?
And do you pet his mares and setters?
And have your friends romantic names?
And do you write them long, long letters?
And are you-since the world began

All women are--a little spiteful?

And don't you dote on Malibran ?

And don't you think Tom Moore delightful?

I see they've brought you flowers to-day,
Delicious food for eyes and noses;
But carelessly you turn away

From all the pinks, and all the roses;
Say, is that fond look sent in search

Of one whose look as fondly answers? And is he, fairest, in the Church,

Or is he ain't he-in the Lancers?

And is your love a motley page

Of black and white, half joy, half sorrow?