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 rolled 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's belle,
But only-Mrs. Something Rogers!
(1830.)
"There is, perhaps, no subject of more universal interest in the whole range of natural knowledge, than that of the unceasing fluctuations which take place in the atmosphere in which we are immersed."-British Almanac.
AT 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" alarining;
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 that 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 Ronzi would come back again,
And criticised Pacini;
I wished the chorus singers dumb,
The trumpets more pacific,
And eulogized Brocard's à plomb,
And voted Paul "terrific!"
What cared she for Medea's pride
Or Desdemona's sorrow?
"Alas!" my beauteous listener sighed, "We must have rain to-morrow!"
I told her tales of other lands;
Of ever-boiling fountains,
Of poisonous lakes, and barren sands,
Vast forests, trackless mountains:
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,
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 falser lover;
How Lord de B. and Mrs. L.
Had crossed the sea together;
My shuddering partner cried—" O Ciel!
How could they-in such weather?"
Was she a Blue?—I put my trust
In strata, petals, gases;
A boudoir pedant?—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 came 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;
And when my worship was most warm,
She "never found it colder."
I don't object to wealth or land;
And she will have the giving
Of an extremely pretty hand,
Some thousands, and a living.
She makes silk purses, broiders stools,
Sings sweetly, dances finely,
Paints screens, subscribes to Sunday schools, And sits a horse divinely.
But to be linked for life to her!
The desperate man who tried it,
Might marry a Barometer,
And hang himself beside it!
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