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 flowersMy own Araminta, say “No!" He must walk like a god of old story, Like music his soft speech must flow !— If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal— My own Araminta, say "No!" Don't listen to tales of his beauty, Don't hear what they tell of his birth, But give him a theme to write verse on, If he's only an excellent person,— OUR BALL. "Comment! c'est lui? que le je regards encore !-c'est que vraiment il est bien change; n'est ce pas, mon papa ?” LES PREMIERS AMOURS. YOU'LL come to our ball;-since we parted, For a week, when they took you away. 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; 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 And I'll wear what you brought me from Florence, 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; And Jane has gone on with her easels, You'll meet all your beauties ;-the Lily 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, You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball. But out on the world!-from the flowers It shuts out the sunshine of truth: Perhaps you have no recollection That ever you danced at our Ball. You once could be pleased with our ballads ; To-day you have critical ears; You once could be charmed with our salads; Alas! you've been dining with Peers; You trifled and flirted with many; You've forgotten the when and the how; There was one you liked better than any; Perhaps you've forgotten her now. But of those you remember most newly, Of those who delight or enthral, |