Then dwell not, Lily! on an age 66 THE CONJURER. 'Marry come up! I can see as far into a wall as another!" IF you'll tell me the reason why Lucy de Vere Thinks no more of her silks, or her satins; Then I think I can tell why young Harry de Vaux, If you'll tell me the reason Sir Rowland will ride Or is going to meet her at supper; Then I think I can tell how it is that his groom, With a horse that is better and faster, Though the coaches make way, and the people make room, Can never keep up with his master ! If you'll tell me the reason why Isabel's eyes If you'll tell me the reason why Isabel's sighs Then I think I can tell,-when she promised last night If you'll tell me the reason a maiden must sigh If you'll tell me the reason she flings her book by, Can tell what that maiden's complaint is ! COUSINS. "L'Hymen, dit-on, craint les petits Cousins."-SCRIBE. HAD you ever a Cousin, Tom? Did your Cousin happen to sing? Sisters we've all by the dozen, Tom, But a Cousin's a different thing; And you'd find, if you ever had kissed her, Tom, (But let this be a secret between us,) That your lips would have been a blister, Tom, There is something, Tom, in a Sister's lip, That savours so much of relationship And people think it no harm, Tom, But, Tom, you'll soon find what I happen to know, And then there happen so often, Tom, And looks that were moulded to soften, Tom, That long ere the walk is half over, those strings By the voice of those fair, demi-sisterly things, And the song of a Sister may bring to you, Tom, Such tones as the angels woo, But I fear if your Cousin should sing to you, Tom, You'll take her for an angel, too; For so curious a note is that note of theirs, That you'll fancy the voice that gave it Has been all the while singing the National Airs, Instead of the Psalms of David. I once had a Cousin who sung, Tom, But the sound of those songs is still young, Tom, 'Tis folly to dream of a bower of green When there is not a leaf on the tree ; But 'twixt walking and singing, that Cousin has been, God forgive her! the ruin of me. And now I care nought for society, Tom, For I've loved myself into sobriety, Tom, But oh! if I said but half what I might say, That 'twould keep you from loving for many a day, BAGATELLES! I SAW one day, near Paphos' bowers, A little sylphid, hiding near, "You've pondered over those musty books Till half your locks are grey ;— You've dimmed your eyes, you've spoiled your looks, You've worn yourself away! Leave Wisdom's leaden page awhile, And take your lute again, And Beauty's eyes shall round you smile, Leave politics to dull M. P.'s, Philosophy to cells,— Good youth!-you'll ne'er succeed in these- "We've cures in these enchanted bowers For every sort of ill,— Our only medicines are flowers, Sweet flowers that never kill! Our leeches, too, are wondrous wise We've frozen dew-drops from the skies Aud we never send you in our bills- "And youths from every court and clime And maids who have misspent their time We cure blue devils every day, Blue stockings every minute : |