And Lady Jane, who now and then Soon pass the praises of a face; Swift fades the very best vermilion; To-day have stared, and pushed, and fainted, Will soon forget your pearls and plumes, 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 And had you in your baby mouth A wooden or a silver ladle? cradle? And was your first, unconscious sleep, And where you christened Maud or Mary? And was your father called " your grace?" And did he bet at Ascot races? And did he chatter common-place? 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 forefather won 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 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, And do you love your brother James? 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, 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 aint he-in the Lancers? And is your love a motley page Of black and white, half joy, half sorrow? Are you to wait till you're of age? Or are you to be his to-morrow? Or do they bid you, in their scorn, Your pure and sinless flame to smother? Is he so very meanly born? Or are you married to another? Whate'er you are, at last, adieu! I think it is your bounden duty To let the rhymes I coin for you, Be prized by all who prize your beauty. From you I seek nor gold nor fame; From you I fear no cruel strictures; I wish some girls that I could name Were half as silent as their pictures! CONFESSIONS. FROM THE MANUSCRIPT OF A SEXAGENARIAN. IN youth, when pen and fingers first Coined rhymes for all who choose to seek 'em, Ere luring hope's gay bubbles burst, Or Chitty was my vade mecum, Ere years had charactered my brow With the deep lines, that well become it, Or told me that warm hearts could grow Cold as Mont Blanc's snow-covered summit. When my slow step and solemn swing And long before I wore a whisker, Or bought Havanas by the dozen, I fell in love-as many do She was an angel-hem-my cousin. Sometimes my eye, its furtive glance Cast back on memory's short-hand record; I wonder if by any chance. Life's future page will be so checkered! |