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Lead them on with hopes—deceive themThen turn coldly round, and leave them,

Beauty Clare.

Some new slave I note each season,
Wearing life away, his knees on

(Moths around the taper's flare !) Guardsman fine-or young attaché, Black and smooth as papier-maché,

Beauty Clare.

In your box I see them dangling,
Triumphs of successful angling,

Trophies ranged behind your chair;
How they watch the fan you flutter!
How they drink each word you utter,

Beauty Clare!

When at kettle-drums presiding,
I admire your tact, dividing

Smiles to each, in equal share,

Lest one slave wax over-jealous,
Or another grow less zealous,

Beauty Clare!

What perfection in your waltzing!
How in vain the women all sing

When you warble some sweet air!
But your sentimental ditty
Over-you are then the witty

Beauty Clare.

How you light the smoldering embers Of decrepit Peers and Members ! While

you

still have smiles to spare For a new-fledged boy from college, Sitting at your feet for knowledge!

Beauty Clare!

At your country-seat in Salop,
What contention for a gallop

With you on your chestnut mare!

How the country misses hate you,
Seeing o'er a five-barred gate-you,

Beauty Clare !
All-accomplished little creature !
Fatally endowed by nature-

Were your inward soul laid bare,
What should we discover under
That seductive mask, I wonder,

Beauty Clare?

HAMILTON AÏDÉ.

UNDER THE TREES.

“ UNDER the trees!" who but agrees
That there is magic in words such as these?
Promptly one sees shake in the breeze
Stately lime avenues haunted of bees :
Where, looking far over buttercupped leas,
Lads and “ fair shes” (that is Byron's, and

he's

An authority) lie very much at their ease, Taking their teas, or their duck and green peas, Or, if they prefer it, their plain bread and

cheese : Not objecting at all, though its rather a squeeze, And the glass is, I daresay, at eighty degrees. Some get up glees, and are mad about Ries, And Sainton, and Tambulik's thrilling high C's; Or, if painter, hold forth upon Hunt and Maclise, And the breadth of that landscape of Lee's; Or, if learned, on nodes and the moon's apo

gees; Or, if serious, on something of A. K. H. B.'s, Or the latest attempt to convert the Chaldees; Or, in short, about all things, from earthquakes

to fleas. Some sit in twos or (less frequently) threes, With their innocent lamb's-wool or book on

their knees, And talk and enact any nonsense you please, As they gaze into eyes that are blue as the seas,

And you hear an occasional “Harry, don't

tease," From the sweetest of lips in the softest of

keys, And other remarks which to me are Chinese. And fast the time flees, till a lady-like sneeze, Or a portly papa's more elaborate wheeze, Makes Miss Tabitha seize on her brown muf.

fetees And announce as a fact that it's going to

freeze, And that young people ought to attend to their

P's And their Q's, and not court every form of

disease. Then Tommy eats up the three last ratafias, And pretty Louise wraps her robe de cerise Round a bosom as tender as Widow Machree's, And (in spite of the pleas of her lorn vis à vis) Goes and wraps up her uncle—a patient of

Skey's,

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