Wretched woman! I deplore you- Beauty Clare! A MUSICAL BOX. KNOW her, the thing of laces, and And ribbons, and gauzes, and With her neck and shoulders as white as milk, 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, 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? 'Tis the same little tinkle of tunes always; EPISTLE FROM LORD BORINGDON TO FT you have ask'd me, Granville, why 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 Hear what, though shame my tongue restrain, Say, Granville, do you not remember, For you have heard, as well as I, And then my grief more plain to tell Soft cares, sweet fears, fond hopes,-farewell! To wed her-with a suited dower And proudly bear the beauteous maid Or if she liked not woods at Saltrum, Then had I tasted bliss sincere, And happy been from year to year. 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. LITTLE LAURETTE. ITTLE Laurette was sitting beside alone; A mignonne mixture of love and pride She seemed, as she loosed her zone. She combed her tresses of wondrous hair, 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 young feet. Is it fear that dwells in those weird blue eyes? Married to.one who loves you well, Whose wealth to your life will a glory be. Yet I guess you are thinking—who can tell?— Of Frank, who is over the sea. How happy they were, that girl and boy, On the garden terrace by moonlight met, When to look in his eyes was the perfect joy How wretched they were, that boy and girl, Pooh, pooh! her heart? Why she hasn't a heart; A house in Park Lane--a château in France- She made up her mind in that very first dance The news will go out by the Overland Mail : She'll be Queen of Fashion, that heartless elf, Well, I hope he's not quite such a fool. MORTIMER COLLINS. 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. |