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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.
She laugh’d, and every heart was glad,

As if the taxes were abolish'd;
She frown'd, and every look was sad,

As if the opera were demolish’d.
She smild on many just for fun –

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.

I HEARD a sick man's dying sigh,

And an infant's idle laughter,
The Old Year went with mourning by -

The New came dancing after !
Let Sorrow shed her lonely tear,

Let Revelry hold her ladle ;
Bring boughs of cypress for the bier,

Fling roses on the cradle;
Mutes to wait on the funeral state;

Pages to pour the wine;
A requiem for Twenty-Eight,

And a health to Twenty-Nine !

Alas for human happiness!

Alas for human sorrow ! Our yesterday is nothingness,

What else will be our morrow ?
Still Beauty must be stealing hearts,

And Knavery stealing purses;
Still cooks must live by making tarts,

And wits by making verses ;
While sages prate and courts debate,

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;
Some suffering land will rend in twain

The manacles that bound her;
And gather the links of the broken chain

To fasten them proudly round her;
The grand and great will love and hate,

And combat and combine ;
And much where we were in Twenty-Eight,

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;
And writers of weight will speculate

On the Cabinet's design;
And just what it did in Twenty-Eight

It will do in Twenty-Nine.
And the Goddess of Love will keep her smiles,

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;
And pretty Kate will scold her mate,

In a dialect all divine;
Alas! they married in Twenty-Eight,

They will part in Twenty-Nine.
My uncle will swathe his gouty limbs,

And talk of his oils and blubbers ;
My aunt, Miss Dobbs, will play longer hymns,

And rather longer rubbers;
My cousin in Parliament will prove

How utterly ruined Trade is :
My brother, at Eton, will fall in love

With half a hundred ladies;
My patron will sate his pride from plate,

And his thirst from Bordeaux wine :
His nose was red in Twenty-Eight,

"T will be redder in Twenty-Nine.

And oh! I shall find how, day by day,

All thoughts and things look older;
How the laugh of Pleasure grows less gay,

And the heart of Friendship colder;
But still I shall be what I have been,

Sworn foe to Lady Reason,
And seldom troubled with the spleen,

And fond of talking treason;
I shall buckle my skate, and leap my gate,

And throw and write my line;
And the woman I worshipped in Twenty-Eight

I shall worship in Twenty-Nine,

Ar Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fill

Of folly and cold water,
I danced, last year, my first quadrille,

With old Sir Geoffrey's daughter.
Her cheek with summer's rose might vie,

When summer's rose is newest;
Her eyes were blue as autumn's sky,

When autumn's sky is bluest;
And well my heart might deem her one

Of life's most precious flowers,
For half her thoughts were of its sun,

And half were of its showers.

I spoke of novels :—“ Vivian Grey"

Was positively charming,
And “Almack's " infinitely gay,

And “Frankenstein ” alarming;
I said “De Vere” was chastely told,

Thought well of “Herbert Lacy,"
Called Mr. Banim's sketches “ bold,"

And Lady Morgan's “racy;"
I vowed the last new thing of Hook's

Was vastly entertaining;
And Laura said — “I dote on books,

Because it's always raining!”

I talked of music's gorgeous fane,

I raved about Rossini,
Hoped Ronzo would come back again,

And criticised Pacini;
I wished the chorus singers dumb,

The trumpets more pacific,
And eulogized Brocard's a plomb,

And voted Paul “ terrific,”
What cared she for Medea's pride

Or Desdemona's sorrow ?
“ Alas!” my beauteous listener sighed,

" We must have storms to-morrow!"

I told her tales of other lands;

Of ever-boiling fountains,
Of poisonous lakes, and barren sands,

Vast forests, trackless mountains :
VOL. XVI. - 6

I painted bright Italian skies,

I lauded Persian Roses,
Coined similes for Spanish eyes,

And jests for Indian noses;
I laughed at Lisbon's love of mass,

And Vienna's dread of treason;
And Laura asked me where the glass

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;
A boudoir-pendant ? — I discussed

The toga and the fasces;
A cockney-muse ? — I mouthed a deal

Of folly from Endymion;
A saint? – I praised the pious zeal

Of Messrs. Way and Simeon;
A politician ? — It was vain

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,
Found magic in her every glance,

Grace in her every motion;
I wasted all a stripling's lore,

Prayer, passion, folly, feeling;
And wildly looked upon the floor,

And wildly on the ceiling;
I envied gloves upon her arm,

And shawls upon her shoulder;

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