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All the little shakes and stills,
Of the over-song that rills

From a bird.

You have just their eager, quick

« Airs de tête," All their flush and fever-heat

When elate ; Every bird-like nod and beck, And a bird's own curve of neck When she gives a little peck

To her mate.


left me, only now,

In that furred, Puffed, and feathered Polish dress,

I was spurred Just to catch you, O my Sweet, By the bodice trim and neat,Just to feel your heart a-beat,

Like a bird.

Yet, alas! Love's light you deign

But to wear As the dew upon your plumes,

And you care Not a whit for rest or hush; But the leaves, the lyric gush, And the wing-power, and the rush

Of the air.

So I dare not woo you, Sweet,

For a day, Lest I love you in a flash,

As I

may; Did I tell you tender things,

You would shake


sudden wings ; You would start from him who sings,

And away




ALF Lucrece, half Messalina,
Lovely piece of Sèvres-china !

When I see you, I compare

You with common quiet creatures, -Homely delf, in ways and features,

Beauty Clare!

Surely Nature must have meant you
For a Syren, when she sent you

That sweet voice, and glittering hair.
-Was it touch of human passion
Made you woman, in a fashion-

Beauty Clare !
I think not. The moral door-step,
Cautiously you never o'er-step,

you ensnare-Lead them on with hopes—deceive themThen turn coldly round, and leave them,

Beauty Clare ! You've a husband,—and you like him Very fairly: does it strike him

That at home a married pair Does not want a tenor-chorus, Ever, to his wife, canorous,

Beauty Clare?

Some new slave I note each season,
Wearing life away, his knees on.

(Moths around the taper's flare !) Guardsmạn fine-or young attaché, Black and smooth as papier-mâché ;

Beauty Clare. In your box, I see them dangling, Triumphs of successful angling,

Trophies ranged behind your chair ;
How they watch the fan you flutter!
How they drink the words you utter,

Beauty Clare !
When at kettle-drums presiding,
I admire your tact, dividing

Smiles to each, in equal share,
Lest one slave wax over-jealous,
Or another grow less zealous,

Beauty Clare ! At each ball


fill a hundred Girls, when you approach, with one dread,

(What enchanting wreaths you wear!) _That the men will dance no longer, Drawn by an attraction stronger,

Beauty Clare,
What perfection in your waltzing!
How in vain the women all sing,


warble some sweet air !
But, your sentimental ditty
Over, -you are then the witty

Beauty Clare,
Men of every age and station
Listen to your conversation,

With a rapt admiring stare ; As though words that from your mouth fall Sweet as grapes were, on a south wall,

Beauty Clare.

How you light the smouldering embers
Of decrepit Peers and Members !


still have smiles to spare For a new-fledged boy from college, Sitting at your feet for knowledge!

-Beauty Clare.

At your country-seat in Salop,
What contention for a gallop

With you, on your chestnut mare!
How the country misses hate you,
Seeing o'er a five-barr'd gate,—you,

Beauty Clare!

Who at croquet can come near you

? E'en the men, at billiards, fear youMight dislike



you were Less engaging-child-like-simple—(!) With that figure, and that dimple,

Beauty Clare !

All-accomplish'd little creature !
Fatally-endow'd by Nature,

Were your inward soul laid bare,
What should we discover under
That seductive mask, I wonder,

Beauty Clare?

Should we find a heart, revealing
Any one warm, tender feeling ?

Or a cold, hard nature, there,

Saving you—in the Law's letter-
From the lot of many a better,

Beauty Clare?
Yet—who knows? Good might have won you-
Have not those rare gifts undone you ?

Had it not been better, ne'er
To have had gifts rain'd so thickly,
Vanity-corrupted, quickly,

Beauty Clare

you once a little sister ? Did you, when at night you kiss'd her,

Ever breathe an inward pray'r,
That, in all things, God would make her
you, or
else would take her,

Beauty Clare?
For the thought of a Hereafter
Hushes even your light laughter

Sometimes, I suppose? Beware,
How you find yourself within it ! -
All is changed in such a minute,

-Beauty Clare!
When the day shall overtake you

lovers all forsake you,
How with you, then, will it fare ?
-When your conquests are forgotten
In the Row that men call “Rotten,

Beauty Clare?
Locks grown thin, and roses faded,
From your pinnacle degraded,

When the men no longer care Round


wither'd form to cluster,-Friends how many shall you muster,

Beauty Clare?

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