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Many passengers arrest one,
Then he thinks himself a lover :
For his merits, would you know 'ena?
W. MACKWORTH PRAEI). Ar Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fill
Of folly and cold water,
With old Sir Geoffrey's daughter.
When summer's rose is newest;
When autumn's sky is bluest;
Of life's most precious flowers,
And half were of its showers.
I spoke of novels:—“Vivian Gray"
Was positively charming,
I said “ De Vere” was chastely told,
Thought well of “ Herbert Lacy,"
And Lady Morgan's “racy;"
Was vastly entertaining;
Because it's always raining !"
I raved about Rossini,
And criticized Paccini;
The trumpets more pacific,
And voted Paul "terrific." What cared she for Medea's pride
Or Desdemona's sorrow ? “Alas !" my beauteous listener sighed,
“We must have storms to-morrow !"
I told her tales of other lands;
Of ever-boiling fountains,
Vast forests, trackless mountains;
I lauded Persian roses,
And jests for Indian noses ;
And Vienna's dread of treason;
Stood at Madrid last season.
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
In strata, petals, gases;
The toga and the fasces;
Of folly from Endymion:
Of Messrs. Way and Simeon;
To quote the morning paper; The horrid phantoms come again,
Rain, hail, and snow, and vapor.
Flat flattery was my only chance,
I acted deep devotion,
Grace in her every motion;
Prayer, passion, folly, feeling;
And wildly on the ceiling;
And shawls upon her shoulder;
She “never found it colder."
I don't object to wealth or land ·
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!
THE BELLE OF THE BALL.
W. MACKWORTH PRAED.
YEARS—years ago-ere yet my dreams
Had been of being wise and witty; Ere I had done with writing themes,
Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty; Years, years ago, while all my joys
Were in my fowling-piece and filly: 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;
I never saw a waist so slender; 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;
To me it matter'd not a tittle,
I might have thought they murmured Little.
I loved her with a love eternal; I spoke her praises to the moon,
I wrote them for the Sunday Journal.