Then he thinks himself a lover: Lights which ought to burn the brighter He's the cancer of his species, For his merits, would you know 'em? MY PARTNER. W. MACKWORTH PRAED. AT 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, When summer's rose is newest; 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, I wished the chorus singers dumb, I told her tales of other lands; Of poisonous lakes, and barren sands, I lauded Persian roses, And jests for Indian noses; I broached whate'er had gone its rounds, What made Sir Luke lay down his hounds, 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, And when my worship was most warın, I don't object to wealth or land: 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; 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; 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. My mother laughed; I soon found out She was the daughter of a dean, And lord-lieutenant of the county. But titles and the three per cents, And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes and rents, Oh! what are they to love's sensations? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses; He cares as little for the stocks, As Baron Rothschild for the muses. She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach, Young blossom in her boudoir fading; She touch'd the organ; I could stand For hours and hours and blow the bellows. She kept an album, too, at home, Well fill'd with all an album's glories; Paintings of butterflies and Rome, Patterns for trimming, Persian stories; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter; And autographs of Prince Laboo, And she was flatter'd, worship'd, bored, Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted, |