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Wretched woman! I deplore you-
In that hour of dark despair
Beauty Clare !
A MUSICAL BOX.
KNOW her, the thing of laces, and
And her doll-like face and conscious mien. A lay-figure fashioned to fit a dress,
All stuffed within with straw and bran ; Is that a woman to love, to caress ?
Is that a creature to charm a man? Only listen! how charmingly she talks Of
your dress and hers—of the Paris modeOf the coming ball-of the opera-box
Of jupons, and flounces, and fashions abroad. Not a bonnet in church but she knows it well,
And Fashion she worships with downcast eyes ; A marchande de modes is her oracle,
And Paris her earthly paradise. She's perfect to whirl with in a waltz ;
And her shoulders show well on a soft divan, As she lounges at night and spreads her silks,
And plays with her bracelets and flirts her fan; With a little laugh at whatever you say,
And rounding her “No” with a look of surprise, And lisping her “ Yes,” with an air distrait,
And a pair of aimless, wandering eyes.
Her duty this Christian never omits !
She makes her calls, and leaves her cards, And enchants a circle of half-fledged wits,
And slim attachés and six-foot Guards. Her talk is of people, who're nasty or nice,
And she likes little bon-bons of compliments; While she seasons their sweetness, by way of spice, .
By some witless scandal she often invents.
Is this the thing for mother or wife ?
Could love ever grow on such barren rocks? Is this a companion to take for a wife ?
One might as well marry a musical box. You exhaust in a day her full extent ;
'Tis the same little tinkle of tunes always ; You must wind her
with a compliment, To be bored with the only airs she plays.
W. W. STORY,
EPISTLE FROM LORD BORINGDON TO
have ask'd me, Granville, why of late I heave the frequent sigh? Why, moping, melancholy, low,
From supper, commons, wine, I go! Why bows my mind, by care oppress'd, By day no peace, by night no rest? Hear, then, my friend, and ne'er you knew A tale so tender, and so trueHear what, though shame my tongue restrain, My pen with freedom shall explain.
Say, Granville, do you not remember,
many a glance
my heart by storm?
have heard, as well as I,
to How changed this scene ! for now, my Granville, Another match is on the anvil.
And I, a widow'd dove, complain,
Right Hon. GEORGE CANNING.
ITTLE Laurette was sitting beside
Her dressing-room fire, in a dream,
A mignonne mixture of love and pride She seemed, as she loosed her zone. She combed her tresses of wondrous hair,
Her small white feet to the fire peeped out, Strangely fluttered her bosom fair,
And her lips had a wilful pout. Whoever had seen that little Laurette,
Looking so innocent, tender, and sweet, Would have long’d to have made her his own, own
pet, To lie at her fair
feet. Is it fear that dwells in those weird blue eyes ?
For it is not love, and it is not sorrow. Ah ! little Laurette, from your dream arise,
You must be married to-morrow. Married to.one who loves
Of Frank, who is over the sea.
On the garden terrace by moonlight met,
When to look in his eyes was the perfect joy
Of that little darling Laurette.
When for the last, last time they met,
And the heart of little Laurette, Pooh, pooh! her heart ? Why she hasn't a heart;
She waltzed that night with Sir Evelyn Vere: Into the greenhouse they strolled apart
He's got twenty thousand a year-
A charming villa on Windermere.
first dance She'd like to be Lady Vere. The news will go out by the Overland Mail :
In a month or two poor Frank will hear
The beauty of Lady Vere.
Till a younger comes, and the world grows cool.
A LEGEND OF THE DIVORCE COURT.
UDERLEY woodlands, breezy and
bright, Were alive with the windflower and
harebell blue, Were sprinkled with marvellous shadow and light,
When I went thither to woo.