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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;
I only feel-you're very pretty.
You're making all our belles ferocious ;
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.”
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
cradle ? And had you in your baby mouth
A wooden or a silver ladle ?
By Brownie banned, or blessed by fairy ?
And were you christened Maud or Mary?
And was your father called “
And did he fill a score of places ?
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 ?
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;
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 ?
And is your love a motley page
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
Be prized by all who prize your beauty.
I fear no cruel strictures ;
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.
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-
Y favourite, you must know,
“ Number One!”
Very far above the line
O'er the crowds.
If you bring a good lorgnette,
'Mid the clouds.
My enchanting little star,
Full of fun.
“Number One ?”
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
With his brush :
winsome little face,
I am sure it is a shame
Seek to hide: