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A politician ?-it was vain
To quote the morning paper ; The horrid phantoms came again,
Rain, Hail, and Snow, and Vapour.
I acted deep devotion,
Grace in her every motion ;
Prayer, passion, folly, feeling ; And wildly looked upon the floor,
And mildly on the ceiling.
And shawls upon her shoulder ;
She—“never found it colder.”
And she will have the giving
Some thousands, and a living.
Sings sweetly, dances finely,
And sits a horse divinely.
The desperate man who tried it
And hang himself beside it!
PORTRAIT OF A LADY
.N THE EXHIBITION OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY, 1831.
What are you, lady ?-naught is here
To tell us of your name or story, To claim the gazer's smile or tear,
To dub you Whig or damn you Tory; It is beyond a poet's skill
To form the slightest notion whether We e'er shall walk through one quadrille,
Or look upon one moon together. You're very pretty !—all the world
Is talking of your bright brow's splendour, And of your locks, so softly curled,
And of your hands, so white and slender ; Some think you're blooming in Bengal ;
Some say you're blowing in the City;
I only feel-you're very pretty.
You're making all our belles ferocious;
And Laura thinks your dress * atrocious :" And Lady Jane, who now and then
Is taken for the village steeple, Is sure you can't be four feet ten,
And “wonders at the taste of people.” Soon pass the praises of a face ;
Swift fades the very best vermilion ;
Fame rides a most prodigious pace;
Oblivion follows on the pillion ; And all who in these sultry rooms
To-day have stared, and pushed, and fainted, Will soon forget your pearls and plumes,
As if they never had been painted. You'll be forgotten--as old debts
By persons who are used to borrow; Forgotten as the sun that sets,
When shines a new one on the morrow; Forgotten-like the luscious peach
That blessed the schoolboy last September ; Forgotten like a maiden speech,
Which all men praise, but none remember. Yet, ere you sink into the stream
That whelms alike sage, saint, and martyr, And soldier's sword, and minstrel's theme,
And Canning's wit, and Gatton's charter, Here, of the fortunes of your youth,
My fancy weaves her dim conjectures, Which have, perhaps, as much of truth
As passion's vows, or Cobbett's lectures. Was't in the north, or in the south
That summer breezes rocked your cradle ?
A wooden or a silver ladle ?
By Brownie banned, or blessed by Fairy ?
And were you christened Maud or Mary? And was your father called “Your Grace ?"
And did he bet at Ascot races ?
And did he chat of commonplace ?
And did he fill a score of places ? And did your lady-mother's charms
Consist in picklings, broilings, bastings? Or did she prate about the arms
Her brave forefathers wore at Hastings ? Where were you finished ? tell me where ?
Was it at Chelsea or at Chiswick ? Had you the ordinary share
Of books and backboard, harp and physic? And did they bid you banish pride,
And mind your Oriental tinting? And did you learn how Dido died ?
And who found out the art of printing? And are you fond of lanes and brooks
A votary of the sylvan Muses ? Or do you con the little books
Which Baron Brougham and Vaux diffuses ? Or do you love to knit and sow
The fashionable world's Arachne ? Or do you canter down the Row
Upon a very long-tailed hackney ? And do you love your brother James ?
And do you pet his mares and setters ? And have your friends romantic names ?
And do you write them long, long letters ? And are you—since the world began
All women are—a little spiteful? And don't you dote on Malibran ?
And don't you think Tom Moore delightsul ? I see they've brought you flowers to-day;
Delicious food for eyes and noses ;
But carelessly you turn away
From all the pinks and all the roses ;
Of one whose look as fondly answers ?
Or is he-ain't he—in the Lancers ?
Of black and white, half joy, half sorrow?
Or are you to be his to-morrow ?
Your pure and sinless flame to smother ?
Or are you married to another?
I think it is your bounden duty
Be prized by all who prize your beauty.
From you I fear no cruel strictures ;
Were half as silent as their pictures !