TO A LADY. WHAT are you, lady?-naught is here To dub you whig, or daub you tory. It is beyond a poet's skill, To form the slightest notion, whether We e'er shall walk through one quadrille, Or look upon one moon together. You're very pretty!-all the world Are talking of your bright brow's splendor, And of your locks, so softly curled, And of your hands, so white and slender: Some think you're blooming in Bengal ; Some say you're blowing in the city; Some know you're nobody at all; I only feel, you're very pretty. But bless my heart! it's very wrong: And Laura thinks your dress" atrocious;" And Lady Jane, who now and then And "wonders at the taste of people." Soon pass the praises of a face; Swift fades the very best vermilion ; Fame rides a most prodigious pace; Oblivion follows on the pillion; And all, who, in these sultry rooms, To-day have stared, and pushed, and fainted, Will soon forget your pearls and plumes, As if they never had been painted. You'll be forgotten-as old debts By persons who are used to borrow; Forgotten as the sun that sets, When shines a new one on the morrow; Forgotten-like the luscious peach, That blessed the school-boy last September; Forgotten-like a maiden speech, Which all men praise, but none remember. Yet, ere you sink into the stream, That whelms alike, sage, saint, and martyr, And soldier's sword, and minstrel's theme, And Canning's wit, and Gatton's charter, Here of the fortunes of your youth My fancy weaves her dim conjectures, Which have, perhaps, as much of truth As Passion's vows, or Cobbett's lectures. Was't in the north or in the south, That summer-breezes rocked your And had you in your baby mouth A wooden or a silver ladle? cradle? And was your first, unconscious sleep, And where you christened Maud or Mary? And was your father called "your grace?" Or did she prate about the arms Her brave forefather won at Hastings? Where were you "finished?" tell me where! Was it at Chelsea, or at Chiswick? Had you the ordinary share Of books and backboard, harp and physic? And did they bid you banish pride, And mind your oriental tinting? And did you learn how Dido died, And who found out the art of printing? And are you fond of lanes and brooks, A votary of the sylvan muses? Or do you con the little books Which Baron Brougham and Vaux diffuses? Or do you love to knit and sew, The fashionable world's Arachne ? Or do you canter down the Row, Upon a very long-tailed hackney? And do you love your brother James? All women are a little spiteful? And don't you dote on Malibran ? And don't you think Tom Moore delightful? I see they've brought you flowers to-day, But carelessly you turn away From all the pinks, and all the roses; Say, is that fond look sent in search Of one whose look as fondly answers? And is he, fairest, in the church, Or is he aint he-in the Lancers? And is your love a motley page Of black and white, half joy, half sorrow? Are you to wait till you're of age? Or are you to be his to-morrow? Or do they bid you, in their scorn, Your pure and sinless flame to smother? Is he so very meanly born? Or are you married to another? |