Answer. Many passengers arrest one, Just to turn him inside out, Clothed in odds and ends of humor- And in absence blasts and sears you: When to do it with impunity: You are neither-then he 'll flatter Till he finds some trait for satire; Hunts your weak point out, then shows it In the mode that 's most invidious, Then he thinks himself a lover: He's the cancer of his species, For his merits, would you know 'em? MY PARTNER. W. MACKWORTH PRAED. Ar Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fill Of folly and cold water, I danced, last year, my first quadrille Her cheek with summer's rose might vie, Her eyes were blue as autumn's sky, I spoke of novels:-" Vivian Gray" I said "De Vere" was chastely told, I vowed the last new thing of Hook's And Laura said-"I dote on books, I talked of music's gorgeous fane, Hoped Ronzo would come back again, I wished the chorus singers dumb, I told her tales of other lands; Of poisonous lakes, and barren sands, I lauded Persian roses, Coined similes for Spanish eyes, And jests for Indian noses; 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 false lover; How Lord de B. and Mrs. L. Had crossed the sea together; My shuddering partner cried-" Oh, Ciel! How could they in such weather?" Was she a blue ?-I put my trust A boudoir pedant ?--I discussed A cockney-muse ?-I mouthed a deal To quote the morning paper; Flat flattery was my only chance, I wasted all a stripling's lore, And shawls upon her shoulder; And when my worship was most warın, I don't object to wealth or land · 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! THE BELLE OF THE BALL. W. MACKWORTH PRAED. YEARS-years ago-ere yet my dreams Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty; In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lilly. I saw her at a country ball; There when the sound of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall, Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that sets young hearts romancing: She was our queen, our rose, our star; And when she danced-oh, 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 't was Venus from her isle, I wondered where she'd left her sparrows. She talk'd of politics or prayers; Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets; Of daggers or of dancing bears, Of battles, or the last new bonnets; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock, If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmured Little. Through sunny May, through sultry June, I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them for the Sunday Journal. |