A bottle of perfume, a girdle,
A lithographed Riego, full-grown, Whom bigotry drew on a hurdle
That artists might draw him on stone; A small panorama of Seville,
A trap for demolishing flies,
A caricature of the Devil,
And a look from Miss Sheridan's eyes.
Good-night to the Season!-the flowers
Of the grand horticultural fête,
When boudoirs were quitted for bowers,
And the fashion was-not to be late;
When all who had money and leisure
Grew rural o'er ices and wines,
All pleasantly toiling for pleasure,
All hungrily pining for pines,
And making of beautiful speeches,
And marring of beautiful shows,
And feeding on delicate peaches,
And treading on delicate toes.
Good-night to the Season!-Another
Will come, with its trifles and toys,
And hurry away, like its brother,
In sunshine, and odour, and noise.
Will it come with a rose or a briar?
Will it come with a blessing or curse?
Will its bonnets be lower or higher?
Will its morals be better or worse?
Will it find me grown thinner or fatter,
Or fonder of wrong or of right,
Or married-or buried?-no matter:
Good-night to the Season-good-night!
W. M. Praed.
AT Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fill
Of folly and cold water,
I danced last year my first quadrille
With old Sir Geoffrey's daughter.
Her cheek with summer's rose might vie,
When summer's rose is newest;
Her eyes were blue as autumn's sky,
When autumn's sky is bluest;
And well my heart might deem her one
Of Life's most precious flowers,
For half her thoughts were of its sun,
And half were of its showers.
I spoke of novels :—
Was positively charming,
And Almacks infinitely gay,
AndFrankenstein' alarming;
I said 'De Vere' was chastely told,
Thought well of Herbert Lacy,'
Called Mr Banim's sketches 'bold,'
And Lady Morgan's 'racy';
I vowed that last new thing of Hook's
Was vastly entertaining;
And Laura said, 'I doat on books,
Because it's always raining.'
I talked of music's gorgeous fame;
I raved about Rossini,
Hoped Ronzi would come back again,
And criticised Pacini ;
I wished the chorus-singers dumb,...
The trumpets more pacific,
And eulogised Brocard's aplomb,
And voted Paul 'terrific!'
What cared she for Medea's pride
Or Desdemona's sorrow?
'Alas!' my beauteous listener sighed,
'We must have rain to-morrow!'
I told her tales of other lands;
Of ever-boiling fountains,
Of poisonous lakes and barren sands,
Vast forests, trackless mountains.
I painted bright Italian skies,
I lauded Persian roses;
Coined similes for Spanish eyes
And jests for Indian noses;
I laughed at Lisbon's love of mass,
Vienna's dread of treason;
And Laura asked me -where the glass
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 falser lover;
How Lord de B. and Mrs L.
Had crossed the sea together:
My shuddering partner cried, O Ciel /
How could they-in such weather?'
Was she a Blue? I put my trust
In strata, petals, gases;
A boudoir-pedant? I discussed
The toga and the fasces;
A Cockney-muse? I mouthed a deal
Of folly from Endymion;
A saint? I praised the pious zeal
Of Messrs Way and Simeon ;
A politician?--it was vain
To quote the morning paper;
The horrid phantoms came again,
Rain, Hail, and Snow, and Vapour.
Flat flattery was my only chance :
I acted deep devotion,
Found magic in her every glance,
Grace in her every motion;
I wasted all a stripling's lore,
Prayer, passion, folly, feeling,
And wildly looked upon the floor,
And wildly on the ceiling ;
I envied gloves upon her arm
And shawls upon her shoulder;
And, when my worship was most warm,-
She never found it colder.'
I don't object to wealth or land;
And she will have the giving
Of an extremely pretty hand,
Some thousands, and a living.
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!
'Comment! c'est lui? que je le regarde encore! C'est que vraiment il est bien changé; n'est ce pas, mon Papa?'-Les
YOU'LL come to our Ball;-since we parted,
I've thought of you more than I'll say ;
Indeed, I was half broken-hearted
For a week, when they took you away.
Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers.
Our walks on the Ness and the Den,
And echoed the musical numbers
Which you used to sing to me then.
I know the romance, since it's over,
'Twere idle, or worse, to recall;
I know you're a terrible rover ;
But, Clarence, you'll come to our Ball.
It's only a year, since, at College,
You put on your cap and your gown; But, Clarence, you're grown out of knowledge, And changed from the spur to the crown: The voice that was best when it faltered... Is fuller and firmer in tone,
And the smile that should never have alteredDear Clarence-it is not your own:
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