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“Thy mental hero never hung
In agonizing doubt ;
CATHERINE M. FANSHAWE.
TO LADY CARTERET.
ROM India's burning clime I'm brought,
With cooling gales like zephyrs fraught.
Can show more different hues than I;
OUR house of hair and lady's hand,
At first did put me to a stand.
Your engine fraught with cooling gales,
GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON.
OOD night to the Season ! 'Tis over!
Gay dwellings no longer are gay; The courtier, the gambler, the lover
Are scattered like swallows away : There's nobody left to invite one
Except my good uncle and spouse ; My mistress is bathing at Brighton,
My patron is sailing at Cowes : For want of better employment,
Till Ponto and Don can get out,
And angle immensely for trout.
Their changes, and rumours of change,
And made all the Bishops look strange : The breaches, and battles, and blunders,
Performed by the Commons and Peers; The Marquis's eloquent blunders,
The Baronet's eloquent ears ; Denouncing of Papists and treasons,
Of foreign dominion and oats ; Misrepresentations of reasons,
And misunderstandings of notes.
Good night to the Season !—the buildings
Enough to make Inigo sick; The paintings, and plasterings, and gildings
Of stucco, and marble, and brick; The orders deliciously blended,
From love of effect into one ;
The palaces only begun;
Sits staring at putty and stones,
To rattle at midnight his bones.
Good night to the Season !—the dances,
The fillings of hot little rooms, The glancings of rapturous glances,
The fancyings of fancy costumes ; The pleasures which fashion makeş duties,
The praising of fiddles and flutes, The luxury of looking at Beauties,
The tedium of talking to mutes ; The female diplomatists, planners
Of matches for Laura and Jane; The ice of her Ladyship’s manners,
The ice of his Lordship's champagne,
Good night to the Season !—the rages
Led off by the chiefs of the throng,
The Lady Eliza's new song ;
Was held to have something to say ;
Which bark “ Batti Batti” all day; The pony Sir Araby sported,
As hot and as black as a coal,
And the Lion his mother imported
In bearskins and grease, from the Pole.
So very majestic and tall ;
And Pasta, divinest of all;
So sadly deficient in stars ;
Exhaling the breath of cigars;
Environed with exquisites sits,
The silly ones out of their wits.
That beamed in the Spanish Bazaar ; Where I purchased—my heart was so tender
A card-case, a pasteboard guitar, A bottle of perfume, a girdle,
A lithographed Riego, full-grown, Whom bigotry drew on a hurdle
That artists might draw him on stone ; A small panorama of Seville,
A trap for demolishing flies, A caricature of the Devil,
And a look from Miss Sheridan's eyes.
Of the grand horticultural fête,
And the fashion was—not to be late ;
Grew rural o'er ices and wines, All pleasantly toiling for pleasure,
All hungrily pining for pines,
And making of beautiful speeches,
And marring of beautiful shows, And feeding on delicate peaches,
And treading on delicate toes.
Good night to the Season !-Another
Wil come with its trifles and toys, And hurry away, like its brother,
In sunshine, and odour, and noise. Will it come with a rose or a briar?
Will it come with a blessing or curse ? Will-its bonnets be lower or higher ?
Will its morals be better or worse ?
Or fonder of wrong or of right;
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.
THE LAST DESPATCH.
URRAH! the Season's past at last ;
At length we've “done" our plea
Dear “Pater,” if you only knew
Our own green lawn and leisure !
And then the pets! one half forgets
The dear dumb friends-in Babel.
Pushed at me from the stable !