Years-years ago,-while all my joy I fell in love with Laura Lily. I saw her at the County Ball: There, when the sounds 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 set young hearts romancing; She was our queen, our rose, our star; And then 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 'twas Venus from her isle, And wondered where she'd left her sparrows. She talked, of politics or prayers, Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's sonnets,Of danglers-or of dancing bears, Of battles -or the last new bonnets,By candlelight, at twelve o'clock, To me it mattered not a tittle; I might have thought they murmured Little. Through sunny May, through sultry June, I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them to 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, As Baron Rothschild for the Muses. She sketched; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading: She botanized; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading: She touched the organ; I could stand For hours and hours to blow the bellows. She kept an album, too, at home, Well filled with all an album's glories; Paintings of butterflies, and Rome, Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter, And autographs of Prince Leboo, And recipes for elder-water. And she was flattered, worshipped, bored; Her steps were watched, her dress was noted; Her poodle dog was quite adored, Her sayings were extremely quoted; She smiled on many, just for fun; Her heart had thought of for a minute. In phrase which was divinely moulded; Our love was like most other loves ;- And "Fly not yet"-upon the river; Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows,-and then we parted. We parted; months and years rolled by ; We met again four summers after: Our parting was all sob and sigh; Our meeting was all mirth and laughter: For in my heart's most secret cell WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. MY PARTNER. T Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fill I danced last year my first quadrille With old Sir Geoffrey's daughter. Her cheek with summer's rose might vie, my heart might deem her one I spoke of novels:- And "Frankenstein" alarming; I vowed that last new thing of Hook's And Laura said "I doat on books, I talked of music's gorgeous fane; I raved about Rossini, Hoped Ronzi would come back again, I wished the chorus-singers dumb, "Alas!" my beauteous listener sighed, I told her tales of other lands: I lauded Persian roses, And Laura asked me where the glass I broached whate'er had gone its rounds, Why Julia walked upon the heath With the pale moon above her; Where Flora lost her false front teeth, And Anne her falser lover; How Lord de B. and Mrs. L. Had crossed the sea together: |