Her stately step, and angry eye,
Her waist so low, her neck so high,
Her habit of inspiring fear,
Her knack of boxing on the ear,—
Could ne'er have made the people stare,
Like the lost comb of Lady Clare!
The tresses it was wont to bind,
Joy in their freedom! unconfined
They float around her, and bedeck
The marble whiteness of her neck
With veil of more resplendent hue
Than ever Aphrodite threw
Around her, when, unseen, she trod
Before the sight of man or God.
Look how a blush of burning red,
O'er bosom and o'er forehead spread,
Glances like lightning; and aside
The Lady Clare hath turned her head,
As if she strove in vain to hide
That countenance of modest pride,
Whose colour many an envying fair
Would give a Monarch's crown to wear.
Persuasion lurks on woman's tongue-
In woman's smile, oh! raptures throng-
And woman's tears compassion move--
But oh! 'tis woman's blush we love!
Now gallantry is busy round!
All eyes are bent upon the ground!
VOL. II.-4
And dancers leave the cheerful measure
To seek the lady's missing treasure.
Meanwhile some charitable Miss,
Quite ignorant what envy is,
Sends slowly forth her censures grave—
"How oddly beauties will behave!
Oh! quite an accident!-last year,
I think, she sprained her ankle here;
And then there were such sudden halts,
And such a bringing out of salts!”—
"You think her vain ?”—“Oh, gracious! no!
She has a charming foot, you know!
And it's so pretty to be lame-
I don't impute the slightest blame-
Only that very careless braid!—
The fault is with the waiting-maid!
I merely mean-since Lady Clare
Was flattered so about her hair,
Her comb is always dropping out-
Oh! quite an accident!-no doubt!"
The Sun hath risen o'er the deep,
And fathers, more than half asleep,
Begin to shake the drowsy head,
And hint "it's time to be in bed."
Then comes chagrin on faces fair;
Soft hands are clasped in mimic prayer;
And then the warning watch is shown,
And auswers in a harsher tone
Reply to look of lamentation,
And argument, and supplication;
In vain sweet voices tell their grief,
In speeches long, for respite brief;
Bootless are all their “Lord!”s and “La!”s,
Their "Pray, Papa!"s and "Do, Papa!" s;
"Ladies," quoth Gout, "I love my rest!
The carriage waits!—eundum est.”
This is the hour for parting bow,
This is the hour for secret vow,
For weighty shawl, and hooded cloak,
Half-uttered tale, and whispered joke.
This is the hour when ladies bright
Relate the adventures of the night,
And fly by turns from truth to fiction,
From retrospection to prediction:
They regulate, with unbought bounty,
The destinies of half the county;
With gypsy talent they foretell
How Miss Duquesne will marry well,
And how 'tis certain that the Squire
Will be more stupid than his sire,
And how the girl they cried up so,
Only two little months ago,
Falls off already, and will be
Really quite plain at twenty-three.
Now Scandal hovers laughing o'er them,
While pass in long review before them
The Lady that my Lord admires-
The gentleman that moves on wires-
The youth with such a frightful frown—
And "that extraordinary gown."
Now characters are much debated,
And witty speeches are narrated;
And Criticism delights to dwell
On conquest won by many a belle,
On compliments that ne'er were paid,
On offers that were never made,
Refusals-Lord knows when refused,
Deductions-Lord knows how deduced;
Alas! how sweetly Scandal falls
From lips of beauties-after Balls.
The music stops,-the lights expire,The dance is o'er,-the crowds retire; And all those smiling cheeks have flown! Away!-the rhymer is alone.
Thou, too, the fairest and the best,
Hast fleeted from him with the rest;
Thy name he will not, love! unite
To the rude strain he pours to-night;
Yet often hath he turned away
Amidst his harsh and wandering lay,
And often hath his earnest eye
Looked into thine delightedly,
And often hath his listening ear-
But thou art gone!-what doth he here?
JULIO, while Fancy's tints adorn
The first bright beam of manhood's morn,
The cares of boyhood fleet away
Like clouds before the face of day;
And see, before your ravished eyes
New hopes appear, new duties rise;
Restraint has left his iron throne,
And Freedom smiles on twenty-one.
Count o'er the friends whom erst you knew, When careless boyhood deemed them true,With whom you wiled the lazy hours Round fond Etona's classic towers, Or strayed beside the learned mud Of ancient Cam's meandering flood; The follies that in them you view, Shall be a source of good to you.
With mincing gait, and foreign air,
Sir Philip strays through park and square,
Or yawns in Grange's sweet recess,
In all the studied ease of dress;
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