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SONGS OF SOCIETY.

For, as our different ages move,

'Tis so ordain’d, (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love When she begins to comprehend it.

MATTHEW PRIOR.

AN ODE TO MISS HARRIET HANBURY,

SIX YEARS OLD.

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ZHY should I thus employ my time,

To paint those cheeks of rosy hue? Why should I search my brains for

rhyme, To sing those eyes of glossy blue ? The power as yet is all in vain,

Thy numerous charms, and various graces : They only serve to banish pain,

And light up joy on parents' faces.

But soon those eyes their strength shall feel,

Those charms their powerful sway shall find : Youth shall in crowds before you kneel,

And own your empire o'er mankind.

Then, when on Beauty's throne you sit, ,
And thousands court your

wish'd-for arms,
My muse shall stretch her utmost wit,
To sing the victories of your

charms. Charms that in time shall ne'er be lost,

At least while verse like mine endures : And future Hanburys shall boast

Of verse like ine, of charms like yours.

SONGS OF SOCIETY.

27

be,

A little vain we

both

may
Since scarce another house can show
A poet, that can sing like me,
A beauty, that can charm like you.

SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.

VALENTINE

TO THE HON. M. C. STANHOPE.

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AIL, day of music, day of Love,
On earth below, in air above :
In air the turtle fondly moans,

The linnet pipes in joyous tones :
On earth the postman toils along,
Bent double by huge bales of song,
Where, rich with many a gorgeous dye,
Blazes all Cupid's heraldry-
Myrtles and roses, doves and sparrows,
Love-knots and altars, lamps and arrows.
What nymph without wild hopes and fears
The double rap this morning hears ?
Unnumbered lasses, young and fair,
From Bethnal Green to Belgrave Square,
With cheeks high flush'd, and hearts loud beating,
Await the tender annual greeting.
The loveliest lass of all is mine-
Good morrow to my

Valentine !
Good morrow, gentle child! and then
Again good morrow, and again,
Good morrow following still good morrow,
Without one cloud of strife or sorrow.
And when the god to whom we pay
In jest our homages to-day
Shall come to claim, no more in jest,
His rightful empire o'er thy breast,

2.8

SONGS OF SOCIETY.

Benignant may his aspect be,
His yoke the truest liberty :
And if a tear his power confess,
Be it a tear of happiness.
It shall be so. The Muse displays
The future to her votary's gaze ;
Prophetic rage my bosom swells-
I taste the cake--I hear the bells !
From Conduit Street the close array
Of chariots barricades the

way
To where I see, with outstretch'd hand,
Majestic, thy great kinsman stand,
And half unbend his brow of pride,
As welcoming so fair a bride.
Gay favours, thick as flakes of snow,
Brighten St. George's portico :
Within I see the chancel's pale,
The orange flowers, the Brussels veil,
The page on which those fingers white,
Still trembling from the awful rite,
For the last time shall faintly trace
The name of Stanhope's noble race.
I see kind faces round thee pressing,
I hear kind voices whisper blessing ;
And with those voices mingles mine-
All good attend my Valentine !

THOMAS, LORD MACAULAY.

TO A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT.

un

KNOW the thing that's most
VII

common ;
(Envy, be silent, and attend !)

I know a reasonable Woman,
Handsome and witty, yet a Friend.

Not warp'd by Passion, aw'd by Rumour,

Not grave thro' Pride, or gay through Folly, An equal Mixture of good Humour,

And sensible soft Melancholy,

“ Has she no faults then (Envy says), Sir ?”

Yes, she has one, I must aver ;
When all the World conspires to praise her,
The Woman's deaf, and does not hear.

ALEXANDER POPE.

SONG BY A PERSON OF QUALITY.

SAID to my heart, between sleeping

and waking, Thou wild thing, that always art leaping

or aching, What black, brown, or fair, in what clime, in what

nation, By turns has not taught thee a pit-a-pat-ation ?

Thus accused, the wild thing gave this sober

reply See the heart without motion, though Celia pass

by! Not the beauty she has, or the wit that she

borrows, Gives the eye any joys, or the heart any sorrows. When our Sappho appears, she whose wit's so

refined, I am forced to applaud with the rest of mankind; Whatever she says, is with spirit and fire ; Every word I attend ; but I only admire.

Prudentia as vainly would put in her claim,
Ever gazing on heaven, tho' man is her aim,
'Tis love, not devotion, that turns up her eyes ;
Those stars of the world are too good for the skies.

But Chloe so lively, so easy, so fair,
Her wit so genteel, without art, without care;
When she comes in my way, the emotion, the pain,
The leapings, the achings, return all again.

O wonderful creature! a woman of reason !
Never grave out of pride, never gay out of season !
When so easy to guess who this angel should be,
Would one think Mrs. Howard ne'er dreamt it

was she !

CHARLES, EARL OF PETERBOROUGH.

WRITTEN AT TUNBRIDGE WELLS,

On Miss TEMPLE, AFTERWARDS LADY OF

SIR THOMAS LYTTLETON.

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EAVE, leave the drawing-room,
Where flowers of beauty us’d to

bloom ;
The nymph that's fated to o'ercome,

Now triumphs at the Wells.
Her shape, and air, and eyes,
Her face, the gay, the grave, the wise,
The beau, in spite of box and dice,

Acknowledge, all excels.

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