THE BELLE OF THE BALL. W. MACKWORTH PRAED. YEARS-years ago--ere yet my dreams Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty; I fell in love with Laura Lilly. I saw her at a country ball; There when the sound of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall, Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that sets young hearts romancing: She was our queen, our rose, our star; And when she danced--oh, heaven, her dancing! Dark was her hair, her hand was white; Her voice was exquisitely tender, Her eyes were full of liquid light; Her every look, her every smile, Shot right and left a score of arrows; I thought 't was Venus from her isle, I wondered where she'd left her sparrows. She talk'd of politics or prayers; Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets; Of daggers or of dancing bears, Of battles, or the last new bonnets; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock, If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmured Little. Through sunny May, through sultry June, I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them for the Sunday Journal. My mother laughed; I soon found out She was the daughter of a dean, And lord-lieutenant of the county. But titles and the three per cents, And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes and rents, Oh! what are they to love's sensations? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses; He cares as little for the stocks, As Baron Rothschild for the muses. She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach, Young blossom in her boudoir fading; She touch'd the organ; I could stand For hours and hours and blow the bellows. She kept an album, too, at home, Well fill'd with all an album's glories; Paintings of butterflies and Rome, Patterns for trimming, Persian stories; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter; And autographs of Prince Laboo, And recipes of elder water. And she was flatter'd, worship'd, bored, Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted, Her poodle dog was quite adored, Her sayings were extremely quoted. She smil❜d on many just for fun- Her heart thought of for a minute; In phrase which was divinely molded; Our love was like most other loves- A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows-and then we parted. We parted-months and years roll'd by; Our meeting was all mirth and laughter ; For in my heart's most secret cell, There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ball-room belle, But only Mrs. Something-Rogers. SORROWS OF WERTHER. W. MAKEPEACE THACK ERAY. WERTHER had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter; Charlotte was a married lady, Would do nothing for to hurt her. So he sighed and pined and ogled, And no more was by it troubled. Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well-conducted person, Went on cutting bread and butter. THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. ["A surgeon of the United States army says, that on inquiring of the Captain of his company, he found that nine tenths of the men had enlisted on account of some female difficulty."]-Morning Paper. YE Yankee volunteers! It makes my bosom bleed Though oft 'tis told one. What-in this company Who march 'neath Stripes and Stars, With fife and horn, Nine tenths of all we see Along the warlike line Had but one cause to jo This Hope Folorn? Deserters from the realm Where tyrant Venus reigns, You slipped her wicked chains, Fled and out-ran her. And now, with sword and helm, Together banded are Beneath the Stripe and Starembroidered banner ! And so it is with all The warriors ranged in line, And swords gold-hilted Yon lusty corporal, Yon color-man who gripes Come, each man of this line, The privates strong and tall, "The pioneers and all,” The fifer nimble Lieutenant and Ensign, O cymbal-beating black, Who caused thy ruin? U nimble fifing Jack, With thy rat-tattooing. Confess, ye volunteers, As bold as Roman |