THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM. YEARS-years ago,-ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise or witty, Ere I had done with writing themes, I fell in love with Laura Lily. I saw her at the County Ball: There, where the sounds of flute and fiddle, Gave signal sweet, in that old hall, Of hands across and down the middle, 10 VINU AIMBOLIAD THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM. Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that set young hearts romancing; She was our queen, our rose, our star ; And then she danced--O Heaven, her dancing! Dark was her hair, her hand was white; Her voice was exquisitely tender; Her eyes were full of liquid light; Her every look, her every smile, Shot right and left a score of arrows; I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, And wonder'd where she'd left her sparrows. She talk'd,-of politics or prayers, Or Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets,— Of danglers-or of dancing bears, Of battles or the last new bonnets, THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM. By candlelight, at twelve o'clock, To me it matter'd not a tittle; If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmur'd Little. Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them to the Sunday Journal: My mother laugh'd; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling: My father frown'd; but how should gout See any happiness in kneeling? She was the daughter of a Dean, Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; She had one brother, just thirteen, Whose color was extremely hectic; |