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She kept an album, too, at home,
Well fillid with all an album's glories; Paintings of butterflies and Rome,
Patterns for trimming, Persian stories; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,
Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter; And autographs of Prince Laboo,
And recipes of elder water.
And she was flatter'd, worshipp'd, bored,
Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted, Her poodle dog was quite adored,
Her sayings were extremely quoted.
As if the taxes were abolish'd;
As if the opera were demolish’d.
I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first, the only one
Her heart had thought of for a minute ; I knew it, for she told me so,
In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand, and oh!
How sweetly all her notes were folded !
Our love was like most other loves
A little glow, a little shiver; A rosebud and a pair of gloves,
And “Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir,
Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair,
The usual vows — and then we parted.
We parted — months and years rollid by;
We met again four summers after; Our parting was all sob and sigh —
Our meeting was all mirth and laughter ; For in my heart's most secret cell,
There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ball-room belle,
But only Mrs. – Something — Rogers.
TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY-NINE.
And an infant's idle laughter,
The New came dancing after !
Let Revelry hold her ladle ;
Fling roses on the cradle;
Pages to pour the wine;
And a health to Twenty-Nine !
Alas for human happiness!
Alas for human sorrow ! Our yesterday is nothingness,
What else will be our morrow ?
And Knavery stealing purses;
And wits by making verses ;
The same stars set and shine; And the world as it rolled through Twenty-Eight,
Must roll through Twenty-Nine.
Some King will come, in Heaven's good time,
To the tomb his father came to; Some Thief will wade through blood and crime
To a crown he has no claim to;
The manacles that bound her;
To fasten them proudly round her;
And combat and combine ;
We shall be in Twenty-Nine.
O'Connell will toil to raise the Rent,
And Kenyon to sink the Nation; And Shiel will abuse the Parliament,
And Peel the Association;
And thought of bayonets and swords
Will make ex-Chancellors merry; And jokes will be cut in the House of Lords,
And throats in the County of Kerry;
On the Cabinet's design;
It will do in Twenty-Nine.
And the God of Cups his orgies; And there'll be riots in St. Giles,
And weddings in St. George's; And mendicants will sup like Kings,
And Lords will swear like lackeys; And black eyes oft will lead to rings,
And rings will lead to black eyes;
In a dialect all divine;
They will part in Twenty-Nine.
And talk of his oils and blubbers ;
And rather longer rubbers;
How utterly ruined Trade is :
With half a hundred ladies;
And his thirst from Bordeaux wine :
"T will be redder in Twenty-Nine.
And oh! I shall find how, day by day,
All thoughts and things look older;
And the heart of Friendship colder;
Sworn foe to Lady Reason,
And fond of talking treason;
And throw and write my line;
I shall worship in Twenty-Nine,
Of folly and cold water,
With old Sir Geoffrey's daughter.
When summer's rose is newest;
When autumn's sky is bluest;
Of life's most precious flowers,
And half were of its showers.
I spoke of novels :—“ Vivian Grey"
Was positively charming,
And “Frankenstein ” alarming;
Thought well of “Herbert Lacy,"
And Lady Morgan's “racy;"
Was vastly entertaining;
Because it's always raining!”
I talked of music's gorgeous fane,
I raved about Rossini,
And criticised Pacini;
The trumpets more pacific,
And voted Paul “ terrific,”
Or Desdemona's sorrow ?
" We must have storms to-morrow!"
I told her tales of other lands;
Of ever-boiling fountains,
Vast forests, trackless mountains :
I painted bright Italian skies,
I lauded Persian Roses,
And jests for Indian noses;
And Vienna's dread of treason;
Stood at Madrid last season.
I broached whate'er had gone its rounds,
The week before, of scandal ; What made Sir Luke lay down his hounds,
And Jane take up her Handel; Why Julia walked upon the heath,
With the pale moon above her; Where Flora lost her false front teeth,
And Anne her false lover; How Lord de B. and Mrs. L.
Had crossed the sea together; My shuddering partner cried — “Oh, Ceil!
How could they in such weather?”
Was she a blue ? — I put my trust
In strata, petals, gases;
The toga and the fasces;
Of folly from Endymion;
Of Messrs. Way and Simeon;
To quote the morning paper; The horrid phantoms come again,
Rain, hail, and snow, and vapor.
Flat flattery was my only chance,
I acted deep devotion,
Grace in her every motion;
Prayer, passion, folly, feeling;
And wildly on the ceiling;
And shawls upon her shoulder;