A daughter of that noble race,
With all its beauty in her face,
Looks from yon hall across that scene
Of river bright and meadow green—
I said her face was proudly fair,
But—lovelier far—a heart is there,
Filled with o’erflowing love of all
On which her gentle glance doth fall.
Oft have her childhood’s feet at dawn
Brushed its bright dew from yonder lawn,
And well she knows each sheltered dell,
And each peculiar tree can tell;
And every flower before her feet
Is linked with memories passing sweet:
She little dreams who gazes there,
That she is far more fresh and fair
Than all the pride of her parterre:
So those the most who charm and bless
Least know their wealth of loveliness!
’Twould tame the most malicious sprite
To watch those eyes so azure bright,
Upon the faëry pleasaunce bent
With wishes gay as innocent;
Or mark her, with more serious air,
Tend her flower-darlings rich and rare;
Or feed the bird that at her voice
Would in its prison-cage rejoice;
Or when in other mood she came
To stoop above her easel’s frame,
As true her taper fingers sped
To trace the scene before her spread;
Or view her, in green garden nook,
Bend thoughtful o’er some gentle book;
Or hear when, blithe as bird of spring,
She half unconsciously would sing
A lay like this—O ne’er again
Those woods will hear so sweet a strain!
O Nature! let me dwell with thee,
The happy playmate of the bee;
Thou bringest back the golden Spring,—
I cannot choose but gaily sing!
Old Winter’s gone with clouds and rain,
And flowers are on the earth again,
And birds fly forth with gladsome wing;—
I cannot choose but gaily sing!
The insects chirp as blithe they pass
Among the dew-gemmed waving grass,
Fresh verdure clothes each fairy-ring;—
I cannot choose but gaily sing!
O Nature! let me dwell with thee;
Thou ne’er art stern and harsh to see,
But mark’st each day by some bright thing,
That makes thy children gaily sing.
What wonder that a maid like this,
With heart so pure, so full of bliss,
The sternest only named to bless!—
Nay—even her cold staid governess
Forgot her formal rules, and smiled,
As she—half woman, half a child—
Would break her studies grave and long,
With carolled snatch of such a song;
Or fragment of the blithest dance,
That ever Sylph had stolen from France;
Or through the opened window hie,
To chase the gorgeous butterfly!
Delicious time! when life is new,
And Pleasure opens wide to view
Her paths of sunshine and of bloom,
That in far distance hide the tomb;
Ere one illusion false is known,
Or one affection chilled, or flown.
O Youth! how passing fair art thou,
Ere care hath worn that open brow,
Ere the fresh roses on thy cheek
Sad tears have dewed—when but to speak
Of joy, with rapture uncontrolled,
Thy lips their coral gates unfold!
Ere yet one bright and cherub trace
Of Heaven hath parted from thy face,
O Youth! so passing blithe and fair!
Why should not Time thy gladness spare?
Now sixteen summers just had sped
In rapid course o’er Mary’s head,—
Each gave her cheek a brighter hue,
Each to her mind some treasure new.
Her sire—what wonder?—long had eyed
His child, his idol, with the pride
Which deems its darling hath no peer
Among her sister-beauties here;
And longs the envying world should view
Her matchless charms, and think so, too.
At length, this boastful rapture, nursed
In secret, forth to utterance burst;
’Twas on that smiling April day
He to his lady spouse did say—
“I think, as now advances Spring,
Our girl to town ’t were well to bring;
’T is time she went to court, my dear!”
Quick cries the Lady—“What!—this year?
Court at sixteen! too soon, no doubt!
All the young ladies round about—
The Greys—the Mordaunts—ne’er were seen,
Never presented ’till eighteen.”—
“Nay, as you will—perchance you’ve reason;
Well then, we keep at home this season.
That last election thinned my purse,
Which, truth to say, requires a nurse;
Though on dear Mary’s pleasure bent,
I should not count how much I spent.”
The Lady hears—and from her spouse
Hides sudden fears, she knits her brows,
And o’er her features still most fair,
Calls up a bland, persuaded air;
“Réflexion faite—you may be right,
I would not stand in Mary’s light;
And to her pleasure, I my own
Would sacrifice;—let’s go to town!”
She uttered not her thought of wo,
“How rapidly one’s daughters grow!”
Yes, pain can seize a mother’s heart,
When, ere her mellowed charms depart,
She must, a full-blown rose, retire
While eager crowds the bud admire;
And while a daughter at her feet }
Hath words that burn, and hearts that beat, }
Must fill the chaperon’s lonely seat! }
Ye, whom a fate like this doth scare,
Be wise, though Cupid sets the snare,
Bid the sly urchin from your door,
To come again at twenty-four;
Then wedded, to such follies cold,
At placid forty you’ll behold,
Without an envious thought or care,
Your second-self—or one more fair;—
Hear with fond pride your daughter’s name,
Look calmly on the lively game,
Nor wince, if careless tongue should say,
“Her mother, too, she had her day!”
Hail Fashion! thou mysterious Queen!
Whose reign omnipotent hath been:
Ay, since the times remote and dark,
When Mistress Noah left her ark!
Sovereign, whose subjects ne’er rebel,
Though of tyrannic sway they tell!
Thy sceptre, Queen, whom all adore,
Hath strange and elephantine power,—
Can rout an army with its strength,
Or raise a pin an atom’s length;
The young, the noble, and the gay,
Hear thy loved voice, and straight obey.
What though the Spring with open arms
Spreads to their gaze her wealth of charms,
With primrose and with king-cup gilds
The hedge-row banks, the sunny fields,
Thou callest—and from these scenes they part,
To mingle in thy busy mart,
And thought, and health, and pleasure drown,
In the dull mazes of a town!
Then, when the Dog-star rages high,
Thou bidd’st the obedient throng to fly
To coasts where not a leaf of green
Their beauty from the blaze may screen,
Let scorched-up eyes, and sun-browned faces,
Declare thy might at watering places!
Then, when rough Winter’s frost and snow
His dismal coming makes them know,
And all is gloom, and storm, and rain,
And bowers are stripped, and hill, and plain,
And garden path, and sheltered wood,
Are carpeted alike with mud,
Thou drivest the herd, most stern of Queens,
To the repose of country scenes;
O prithee! for one little season,
Rule this poor weary world by reason!
At thy decree must Mary go
The town’s tumultuous joys to know.
In simple garb, the lovely maid
Is for the journey soon arrayed;
But ere she leaves that haunted ground,
With tearful gaze she looks around,
And every flower and every tree
Awakens her fond sympathy,
As sparkling with fresh morning dew,
They seem to wave a kind adieu!
She knows not yet of courtlier joys,
No anxious thought her mind employs;
She never dreamed of tricks or arts
Used by coquettes to win light hearts;
The snow-white lily of the lea
Is not more free from guile than she!
The journey o’er—in Grosvenor Square
Behold arrived our timid fair,
Perplexed and deafened by the din
Of crowds and carriages that spin
In dizzy whirl through every street
Where busy trade and luxury meet.
At first the strangeness and surprise
Brings her no joy—she softly sighs,
“O my own home! that I were there
’Mid its green fields and purer air!”
Short time hath she to muse and dream
Of grove-crowned hill, and placid stream,
For Mary is a child no more,
And a gay host assails her door,
With smiles, and becks, and modish airs,
Marchandes des modes—and Couturières;
At first she shrinks back half-ashamed,
As loud their splendid wares are named.
One tells how rulers of the monde
Wear just such satin, just such blonde;
Another, as a peacock vain,
Spreads out a corsage and a train:
“Pour une miladi, aussi belle,
Ça irait vraiment à merveille.”
A third brings wreaths so fair to see,
The King of Judah’s
[1] cunning bee
From flower to flower had boldly flown,
And deemed them surely Nature’s own.
All praised her tournure, and her grace,
Till modest blushes dyed her face;
Then each, demanding “pardon,” thought
“That if sa seigneurie had bought
A few more nouveautés ’twere wise,
Ere they were shewn to other eyes—
As now les grandes dames wished to buy
More than their artistes could supply;
For then, just then,—’twas sad, but true,—
Even if they wrought the whole night through,
Full many a lady needs must wait,
Who’d ordered robes for the next fête.”
The prologue’s done—the father sighs,
As all those glittering gauds he eyes;
And, while his spouse makes haste to tell
Their cheapness is a miracle,
He thinks of his estates at nurse,
And in his pocket grasps his purse.
And now to Mary’s wondering eyes,
Behold the magic curtain rise;
O day of joy, and agitation,
Comes on her courtly presentation!
Gems deck her brow, and waving plumes,
Her train came forth from Genoa’s looms,
And rich transparent folds of lace
Fall from her head with airy grace;
To Nature, Art has lent its aid,
And proud she looks, though half afraid.
No longer now the sportive child,
With buoyant step, and spirits wild,
Who chased the winged flowers of air,
Or wandered through her bright parterre;
Schooled to a stately dignity
She moves, while crowds press on to see
A form from Beauty’s finest mould,
Which all of purple, and of gold,
Of nodding plume, and diamond bright,
Are but too poor to deck aright!
They little dream who see her glide
On her new path with mien of pride,
How in her secret, throbbing breast,
A trembling, timid heart doth rest!
Her mother leads her through the throng,
Who whisper as she moves along,
Some, with a haggard envious air,
Whose ancient faces round her stare,
“Wonder the men so weak can be,
So undiscerning as to see
One single charm or winning grace
In such a blushing baby face.”
In vain they cavil—gallants gay
From older beauties shrink away;
Eye the fair girl with flattering gaze,
And whisper, to be heard, her praise;
Their words, “How charming!” meet her ear,
A spell to dissipate her fear.
More calm she nears the throne at last—
A step—the dreaded ordeal’s past!