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Of science and logic he chatters,

As fine and as fast as he can;
Though I am no judge of such matters,
I'm sure he's a talented man.

His stories and jests are delightful ;-
Not stories or jests, dear, for you;
The jests are exceedingly spiteful,

The stories not always quite true.
Perhaps to be kind and veracious

May do pretty well at Lausanne; But it never would answer,-good gracious! Chez nous—in a talented man.

He sneers,--how my Alice would scold him!-
At the bliss of a sigh or a tear;
He laughed--only think!-when I told him
How we cried o'er Trevelyan last year;

I vow I was quite in a passion;

I broke all the sticks of my fan; But sentiment's quite out of fashion, It seems, in a talented man.

Lady Bab, who is terribly moral,
Has told me that Tully is vain,
And apt--which is silly-to quarrel,
And fond--which is sad-of champagne.

I listened, and doubted, dear Alice,

For I saw, when my lady began,

It was only the Dowager's malice;—

She does hate a talented man!

He's hideous, I own it. But fame, love,
Is all that these eyes can adore;

He's lame,--but Lord Byron was lame, love,
And dumpy,--but so is Tom Moore.

Then his voice,-such a voice! my sweet creature,

It's like your Aunt Lucy's toucan: But oh! what's a tone or a feature, When once one's a talented man?

My mother, you know, all the season,
Has talked of Sir Geoffrey's estate;
And truly, to do the fool reason,

He has been less horrid of late.

But to-day, when we drive in the carriage,
I'll tell her to lay down her plan;--

If ever I venture on marriage,
It must be a talented man!

P. S.-I have found, on reflection,
One fault in my friend,--entre nous ;
Without it, he'd just be perfection ;—
Poor fellow, he has not a sou !
And so, when he comes in September,
To shoot with my uncle, Sir Dan,
I've promised mamma to remember
He's only a talented man!

(1831.)

LETTERS FROM TEIGNMOUTH.

I.—OUR BALL.

"Comment! c'est lui? que je le regarde encore! C'est que vraiment il est bien changé; n'est ce pas, mon papa ?"-Les Premiers Amours.

YOU'LL Come to our ball;-since we parted
I've thought of you more than I'll say;
Indeed, I was half broken-hearted

For a week, when they took you away.
Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers
Our walks on the Ness and the Den,
And echoed the musical numbers

Which you used to sing to me then.
I know the romance, since it's over,
'Twere idle, or worse, to recall ;-
I know you're a terrible rover;
But, Clarence, you'll come to our Ball!

It's only a year since, at College,

You put on your cap and your gown;

But, Clarence, you're grown out of knowledge,
And changed from the spur to the crown;

The voice that was best when it faltered,
Is fuller and firmer in tone:

And the smile that should never have altered,

Dear Clarence,-it is not your own;

Your cravat was badly selected,

Your coat don't become you at all; And why is your hair so neglected? You must have it curled for our Ball.

I've often been out upon Haldon
To look for a covey with Pup;
I've often been over to Shaldon,
To see how your boat is laid up.
In spite of the terrors of Aunty,
I've ridden the filly you broke;
And I've studied your sweet little Dante
In the shade of your favourite oak:
When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence,

I sat in your love of a shawl;

And I'll wear what you brought me from FloPerhaps, if you'll come to our Ball.

[rence,

You'll find us all changed since you vanished;

We've set up a National School;

And waltzing is utterly banished;
And Ellen has married a fool;

The Major is going to travel;

Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout;

The walk is laid down with fresh gravel;

Papa is laid up with the gout:

And Jane has gone on with her easels,

And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul; And Fanny is sick with the measles,

And I'll tell you the rest at the Ball.

You'll meet all your beauties;--the Lily,
And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm,
And Lucy, who made me so silly

At Dawlish, by taking your arm;
Miss Manners, who always abused you,
For talking so much about Hock ;
And her sister, who often amused you,
By raving of rebels and Rock;

And something which surely would answer,
An heiress quite fresh from Bengal ;-
So, though you were seldom a dancer,
You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball.

But out on the world!-from the flowers
It shuts out the sunshine of truth;
It blights the green leaves in the bowers,
It makes an old age of our youth:
And the flow of our feeling, once in it,

Like a streamlet beginning to freeze,
Though it cannot turn ice in a minute,
Grows harder by sudden degrees.
Time treads o'er the graves of affection;
Sweet honey is turned into gall;
Perhaps you have no recollection
That ever you danced at our Ball.

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