INTRODUCTION.
Expect not, gentle readers, here to find
Some wild romance,—effusion of a mind
Imbued with pictures, which dark fancies give;—
My Heroine, like yourselves doth act and live.
No scenes of terror here you’ll see portrayed,
To shock the feelings of a timid maid.
No scowling wretches here with purpose dire,
With dark-laid plots and fiendlike men conspire.
No women, who, forgetful of their sex,
Yielding to passion’s sway, their hearts perplex.
No tyrant father, and no mother cross;
No gamester desperate with heavy loss.
No rivals using every wicked art,
To rob a damsel of her lover’s heart.
No murderous dagger, and no poisoned cup,
To make pale readers full on horrors sup.
No sinful love here marks its guilty course,
Followed by shame, remorse, and a divorce.
No ruined château, and no gliding ghost,
No duel or elopement, can we boast
In these poor pages, only meant to shew
The scenes of real life, whose truth you know.
My Heroine, like yourselves, devoid of art,
Rich in each gift of person, mind, and heart;—
Just such a daughter as all parents prize,
And just as you appear to the fond eyes
Of yours;—just such a nymph as men adore:
Look in your glass—her image stands before.
The tresses may present a different hue,
The eyes may gray or black be, ’stead of blue;
More or less embonpoint perhaps you’ll see,
But, ne’ertheless, mankind will all agree
That beauties are as sisters like: ’tis true,
When Mary I described—I thought of you.
The same your winning charms, your dimples, smiles,
The same mild virtue that each heart beguiles,
The same your occupations, hopes, and fears,
Your artless gaiety, your ready tears;—
You’ll recognise the portrait I am sure,
Though you deny it with a look demure:
And thus alike in loveliness and lives,
May you, like Mary, soon be blessed as—wives.