Page images

It is beyond a poet's skill

To form the slightest notion whether We e'er shall walk through one quadrille,

Or look upon one moon together.

You're very pretty !-all the world

Are talking of your bright brow's splendour, And of your locks, so softly curled,

And of your hands, so white and slender ; Some think you're blooming in Bengal ;

Some say you're blowing in the City;
Some know you're nobody at all:

I only feel-you're very pretty.
But, bless my heart! it's very wrong;

You're making all our belles ferocious ;
Anne never saw a chin so long ;

And Laura thinks your dress “ atrocious; And Lady Jane, who now and then

Is taken for the village steeple, Is sure you can't be four feet ten,

And is wonders at the taste of people.”

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]


Soon pass the praises of a face;

Swift fades the very best vermilion ; Fame rides a most prodigious pace;

Oblivion follows on a pillion; And all who in these sultry rooms

To-day have stared, and pushed, and fainted, Will soon forget your pearls and plumes

As if they never had been painted.

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

cradle ? And had you in your baby mouth

A wooden or a silver ladle ?
And was your first unconscious sleep,

By Brownie banned, or blessed by fairy ?
And did you wake to laugh or weep?

And were you christened Maud or Mary?

And was your father called “


Grace ?"
And did he bet at Ascot races ?
And did he chat of commonplace ?

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 forefathers wore 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 mind your Oriental tinting ? And did you learn how Dido died,

And who found out the art of printing ?

And are you

fond of lanes and brooksA 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

The fashionable world's Arachne? Or do you canter down the Row

Upon a very long-tailed hackney ?

And do


brother James ? And do you pet his mares and setters ? And have


friends romantic names ? And do you write them long, long letters ? And are you—since the world began

All women are-a little spiteful ? And don't


dote on Malibran ? And don't you think Tom Moore delightful ?

I see they've brought you flowers to-day;
Delicious food for eyes


noses ; 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-ain't he—in the Lancers ?

sorrow ?

And is your love a motley page
Of black and white, half joy,


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 ;

I fear no cruel strictures ;
I wish some girls that I could name
Were half as silent as their pictures !



PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG LADY, “ No. I,in a collection of one thousand five hun

dred and eighty-three works of art, at the Ex-
hibition of the Royal Academy.

Y favourite, you must know,
In the Piccadilly show,
Is the portrait of a lass

Bravely done.
'Mid the fifteen eighty-three
Works of art that you may see,
There is nothing can surpass-

“ Number One!”



Very far above the line
Is this favourite of mine;
You may see her smiling there

O'er the crowds.

If you bring a good lorgnette,
You may see my dainty pet ;
Like the Jungfrau, pink and fair,

'Mid the clouds.

My enchanting little star,
How I wonder what you are,
With your rosy laughing lips

Full of fun.
Have you many satellites,
Do you shine so bright o' nights,
That there's nothing can eclipse

“Number One ?

constant in


loves ? Do you change them with your gloves ? Pray does Worth pervade your trainOr your

heart? Are you fickle, are you leal, Are

your sunny tresses real, Or your roses only vain

Works of art?

I sincerely envy him
Who the fortune had to limn
Your bewitching hazel eyes

With his brush :
Who could study ev'ry grace

winsome little face,
And the subtle charm that lies



I am sure it is a shame
That your pretty face and frame,
Ruthless hangers out of view

Seek to hide:

« PreviousContinue »