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And, oh, from its ivory portal,
Like music his soft speech must flow !
If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortalMy own Araminta, say "No!"
Don't listen to tales of his beauty,
Don't hear what they tell of his birth, Don't look at his seat in the county,
Don't calculate what he is worth; But give him a theme to write verse on,
And see if he turns out his toe;— If he's only an excellent person,—
My own Araminta, say "No!"
"Comment! o'est lui? que le je regards encore !—e'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,
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've grown out of knowledge,
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.
I've ridden the filly you broke;
In the shade of your favorite oak:
I sat in your love of a shawl; And I'll wear what you brought me from Florence,
Perhaps, if you'll come to our Ball.
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;
Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout;
Papa is laid up with the gout:
And Jane has gone on with her easels,
And Fanny is sick with the measles,—
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;— bo, though you were seldom a dancer,
You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball.
Bat 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.
You once could be pleased with our ballads ;—
To-day you have critical ears;
Alas! you've been dining with Peers;
You've forgotten the when and the how;
Perhaps you've forgotten her now.
Of those who delight or enthral,
As some you will find at our Ball.
They tell me you've many who flatter,
You like to be praised by the throng:
They tell me you're loved by a Blue; They tell me you're sadly immoral—
Dear Clarence, that cannot be true! But to me you are still what I found you
Before you grew clever and tall; And you'll think of the spell that once bound you:
And you'll come, Won't you come 1 to our Ball 1