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The last humble solace I wait,
Wou'd Heav'n but indulge me the boon, May some dream, less unkind than
my fate, In a vision transport me to town.
“ Clarissa, meantime, weds a beau,
Who decks her in golden array; She's the finest at ev'ry fine show,
And flaunts it at Park and at Play: Whilst I am here left in the lurch,
Forgot, and secluded from view; Unless when some bumkin at church Stares wistfully over the pew.”
LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU.
SOLILOQUY OF A BEAUTY IN THE
WAS night; and Flavia to her room
retir'd, With evening chat and sober reading
Beauty, like wit, to judges should be shewn;
of nature or of art,
circle thousand Cupids rove, The court of Britain is the court of Love. How has my conscious heart with triumph glow'd, How have my sparkling eyes their transport shew'd, At each distinguish'd birth-night ball, to see The homage, due to Empire, paid to me! When every eye was fix'd on me alone, And dreaded mine more than the Monarch's
frown; When rival statesmen for my favour strove, Less jealous in their power than in their love. Chang'd is the scene; and all my glories die, Like flowers transplanted to a colder sky: Lost is the dear delight of giving pain, The tyrant joy of hearing slaves complain. In stupid indolence my life is spent, Supinely calm, and dully innocent: Unblest I wear my useless time away; Sleep (wretched maid !) all night, and dream all
day; Go at set hours to dinner, and to prayer; For dullness ever must be regular. Now with mamma at tedious whist I play; Now without scandal drink insipid tea; Or in the garden breathe the country air, Secure from meeting any tempter there ; From books to work, from work to books, I rove, And am (alas !) at leisure to improve !
Is this the life a beauty ought to lead?
GEORGE, LORD LYTTELTON.
ICCADILLY! shops, palaces, bustle,
and breeze, The whirring of wheels, and the mur
mur of trees; By night or by day, whether noisy or stilly, Whatever my mood is, I love Piccadilly!
Wet nights, when the gas on the pavement is
streaming, And young Love is watching, and old Love is
dreaming, And Beauty is whirling to conquest, where shrilly Cremona makes nimble thy toes, Piccadilly!
Bright days, when a stroll is my afternoon wont,
See yonder pair riding, how fondly they saunter,
favourite street ; Yes or no-I would carry my point, willy-nilly : If“ no,"-pick a quarrel; if®“ yes," --Piccadilly! From Primrose balcony, long ages ago, “Old Q.” sat at gaze,—who now passes below? A frolicksome statesman, the Man of the Day; A laughing philosopher, gallant and gay; Never darling of fortune more manfully trod, Full of years, full of fame, and the world at his nod: Can the thought reach his heart, and then leave
it more chilly“Old P. or old Q.,-I must quit Piccadilly ?” Life is chequer'd; a patchwork of smiles and of
We value its ups, let us muse on its downs; There's a side that is bright, it will then turn us
t'other; One turn, if a good one, deserves yet another. These downs are delightful, these ups are not hilly, Let us turn one more turn ere we quit Piccadilly.
ST. JAMES'S STREET.
T. JAMES'S STREET, of classic fame,
The finest people throng it.
I think I've pass'd along it!
Why, that's where Saccharissa sigh'd
When Waller read his ditty ;
And Alvanley was witty.
Young Churchill stole in class-time ;
And then recall the past time.
The bumpers to Miss Gunning;
And Selwyn's ghastly funning.
The dear old street of clubs and cribs,
As north and south it stretches,
And Gillray's fiercer sketches ;
racy stories; The wine, the dice, the wit, the bile
The hate of Whigs and Tories.
At dusk, when I am strolling there,
Dim forms will rise around me ;Lepel Aits past me in her chair,
And Congreve's airs astound me !
Look'd kindly when I met her ;
Forgot to quite forget her.
The street is still a lively tomb
For rich, and gay, and clever; The crop of dandies bud and bloom,
And die as fast as ever.