She heard not words that quick flew by,
The ready compliment—the sigh—
Nor saw grave men, at Love who joke,
Now prone to kneel before she spoke—
Her heart, her eye, her ear were gone,
She had but words, but thoughts for one.
At length, at distance in the crowd,
Deloraine she saw, and said aloud
“Tis he!” “Pray who?” with placid tone
Her mother asks—a blush hath flown
To her clear cheek—she feels it burn,
And redder roses mount in turn.
But ere she could an answer frame
A troop of ladies round her came;
She stops—there hangs on Deloraine’s arm
A graceful form; how many a charm
Bewitching doth that maid array,
And points the pang that will have way,
As forced, alas! to pause and see,
Her heart grew sick—she wished to be
Apart from all that brilliant throng,
Apart from smile, and jest, and song:
The fête so late all mirth and light,
Hath lost its gladness to her sight;
The women teaze, the men annoy,
The giddy crowd can yield no joy;
A tear (that would despite her rise)
Sought to escape from her bright eyes,
As past she saw Lord Deloraine glide
With that fair lady at his side.
O Jealousy! thy serpent fang
Strikes through the heart its keenest pang;
Thou changest Summer’s sunny air
To Winter’s hue of dull despair;
The young rose with its radiant bloom,
For the wan flower that decks the tomb;
And with thy cold insidious art
Bidd’st Hope from warmest breast depart.
How mused our maid, on every charm
Of her who hung on Deloraine’s arm;
One minute’s length had been that gaze,
But oh! so fraught with wild amaze,
A long life it had seemed to be
To her excited phantasy.
With care she scarcely knew to hide,
That beauty how she magnified,
Which every eye that both had known
Must find inferior to her own!
That smile, how brightly did it shine,
“Ah!” Mary thought, “what chance had mine?”
Yet had some fairy made her pass
That woman’s shrine—a looking-glass,
Even she, all jealous, must have seen
Which was of Beauty’s empire Queen:
But on she wandered mute and slow—
How tedious seemed the revel now!
The smiling dandies how she hated,
The tiresome chaperons how they prated!
“Would it were done!” she sighs once more,
“Was ever fête so dull before?”
An hour—a long, long hour, has flown,
A year she thought had fleeter gone,
When as her eyes, that wander wide,
From the green alley turn aside,
Lo! from the lawn Lord Deloraine,
With that fair lady, comes again;
Some one he seems in haste to seek,
And blushes rise to Mary’s cheek,
Their glances meet—ah! vain to hide
Her gentle joy, as at her side,
Eager he takes his wonted place,
With rapture beaming in his face;
Tells her how vainly, and how long,
He sought her ’mid the motley throng;
Some witchcraft (what she knows not well),
Hath o’er the revel cast a spell;
She guesses not what magic wand
Restores her back to fairy land,
And for those thoughts of saddening strain,
Gives back her young bright hopes again.
That dreaded rival, it appears,
Had Mary’s mother known for years;
The two, enchanted at the meeting,
Exchange at once the kindest greeting:
“So glad!—a sweet surprise! my dear,
(Lord Deloraine’s cousin) Lady Vere!”
Together now through shady walk
And rich parterre they stroll and talk;
Mary hath but one grief, alas!
That hours will now like moments pass.
’Tis true no words of love were spoken,
But glance and smile, by many a token,
Told that the link, which but death parts,
Was flung around a pair of hearts:
In truth, ’twas passing fair to see
Mary, with sweet simplicity,
Droop her long lashes ’neath his gaze,
That looked his worship and her praise,
The while she thought that praise was sweet
As childhood’s music, when we meet
Its echoes in a stranger land,
And wrapt in pensive reverie stand,
Dwelling on happy days gone by,
Until a tear-drop dews the eye;
And well we love that sadness brief,
The softness—not the sting of grief,
E’en while we sighing ask again
To hear that loved and ancient strain.
But Beauty (so a bard of ours
Declares), alas! can’t live on flowers;
And honeyed words, however dear,
And charming to the thirsty ear,
Too fine are, too ambrosial quite,
To satisfy the appetite.
And hence, our senses to content,
Luxurious déjeûners were meant;
A rich repast,—O call not food
The choice inventions of a Ude!
Now even lovers rush to eat,
And happy they who find a seat—
So thickly streams the crowd aside,
To taste the good the gods provide!
’Tis strange that when the eye reposes
On summer skies and beds of roses—
And fountains with their spray-showers glancing,
And green leaves in the south-wind dancing—
That tyrant Hunger, grossest sense!
Will not a few short hours dispense
His congé to poor earthly sinners,
But sets them craving for their dinners:
’Tis strange that all, howe’er refined,
Of lofty thought, poetic mind,
Nor leaves nor roses will espy,
If but a tempting pâté’s by;
Transparent fountains flow in vain,
If froth for them the brisk champagne,
As chuckling while they pile a plate,
They cry, “I love a rural fête!”
’Tis strange—explain it, learned sages—
That chaperons all, whate’er their ages,
Whether dame Fortune smiles or spites,
Rejoice in boundless appetites;
And some I’ve seen such homage do
To fish, flesh, fowl, and pastry too,
Fearless of ache or indigestion,
Having profoundly solved the question,
How many different foods with zest
A Christian stomach can digest;
That hecatombs must offer up
The amazed Amphitryons where they sup.
Maidens, au contraire, little eat;
How should they, when, from neighbouring seat,
A lover, with devouring eyes,
Each tempting morsel jealous spies?
Ye charmers, who would lovers gain
To hover round, a sighing train!
From all but sparrow-meals refrain;
Men bear a small plump hand to see
A golden fork wield gracefully,
Not guided by a heart intent,
Like nun’s, half starved with keeping Lent,
But in a light capricious way
As less in hunger than in play.
Would you enchain the creatures fast,
Choose delicately for repast
Of whitest chicken, one small slice—
Some orange jelly, cool as ice—
Three cherries, and an almond cake— }
And water tinged with wine,—they’ll make }
A charm not Samson’s self could break. }
But should your suitors chance to spy
The open mouth, the hungry eye,
You’ll look around—and where are they?
Scared—gone—and sure, past doubt, to say,
“Nay, saw you that?—no joke indeed!
I hate to see a woman feed!”
And now ’tis dark and balmy night:
Ten thousand lamps hang forth their light
From high verandas, arches, bowers,
Festooned with pendant wreaths of flowers.
And glorious shines the summer green
Of tree, and shrub, by that light seen;
And delicate the rainbow dyes,
Of every flower that odour sighs;
And spirit-like the white-robed maids,
That loiter ’mid the garden shades:
There’s not a rhymester there that night
But calls the scene Elysian quite,
And, waxing sentimental on it,
Thinks of Boccaccio and a sonnet;
Or some bright isle of genii sprites,
We read of in the “Arabian Nights;”
Or some bright banquet which Watteau,
With courtier pencil, loved to shew;
Or, if excursive grow his fancies,
He conjures up those old romances
Where sorceress, for her favourite’s bliss,
Would raise, by spells, a scene like this,
Which chaster knight could, with one prayer
And holy sign, dispense in air;
Music from dusky ambush stole
To witch with melody the soul,
As wandering minstrels sung soft lays,
Such as Moore writes, and Thalberg plays:
And, oh! the voice hath wondrous power
To melt, to move, at such an hour.
As Mary walked with Deloraine,
They paused, arrested by a strain,
The notes were rich, and low, and sweet,
Voice of a mind—nor all unmeet
The words, of Love in ambuscade,
Which Deloraine’s secret thoughts betrayed.
“O! fair, surpassing fair thou art,
Unconscious all—the Graces’ boast;
What wonder myriads seek thy heart?
But, Lady, I adore thee most!
When others on thy beauty dwell,
Hang on thy words, explore thine eyes,
O, never earthly bard could tell
What thoughts within my bosom rise.
Let speechless Love, in sighs reveal
That passion which the bolder vow;
And let one thought of pity steal
For him who never felt till now.
Tell her, ye stars! thou winged air
Breathe to her, Flora’s painted host,
That I am true as she is fair—
Though all must love, I love her most!”
The strain is o’er—ere Deloraine speaks,
Bright blushes mount to Mary’s cheeks,
For well she guesses, by his sigh,
He would the minstrel’s lay apply;
And, aided by another’s art,
Reveal the secret of his heart.
But Modesty, her guardian, throws
Its ægis round her—grave she grows,
As quick her head is turned aside,
Her cheek’s deep rosy blush to hide.
Still looked he earnest—still he sought
In her mild eyes to read her thought,
If her heart’s inmost folds among
There lurked kind answer to that song.
And still she feared to meet his eye,
Lest her confusion he should spy;
For yet, though softened, charmed, and moved,
She only hopes she is beloved!
And, self-accusing, thinks it wrong
To give such meaning to a song:
Thus, he all fear, and she all shame,
He breathes no word to tell his flame.
At length her mother she descried,
Then flew, half-fluttered, to her side!
For Crœsus’ wealth he should not know
The fancies which disturbed her so,
While all the firmer chained was he,
By her young timid modesty.
O Modesty!—which angels yield
To helpless woman for a shield,
What diamond from Golconda’s mine,
Adorns her brow, like blush of thine?
Worthless the form, and coarse the face,
(However fair) thou dost not grace;
The sweetest voice is like a lute
Strung with harsh chords, when thou art mute;
The heart, a stained and ruined shrine,
Thou dost not enter to refine;
The eye but shoots a meteor gleam
Noxious and keen, without thy beam;
How vainly beauty, lacking thee,
Would chain men’s love—Sweet Modesty!
Cestus that Venus surely wore,
To wile a world in days of yore,
The charm that she to Juno lent,
When that bold, dark-eyed Queen was bent
To win the recreant from her love,
The haughty and inconstant Jove:
Bright spirit! thou in Mary’s eye
Smilest when she bids Deloraine good-by!
And—fairy follower—at her call,
Attend’st her from that festival!
Mary’s at home—and pondering o’er
Each word of his, as ne’er before
She dwelt on them. His looks of love,
Even now recalled, have power to move,
Of his sweet voice each cherished tone, }
Fond Memory has made its own, }
So dear, and so familiar grown }
Some little thought of earthly cares
Are mingled with her fervent prayers,
Hopes that they soon again shall meet,
Before she yields to slumber sweet
As falls on infant’s brow, ere guile
Hath chased its Heaven-remembering smile!
Then white-robed Innocence doth bend,
And o’er her couch its wings extend.
Visions of love and happiness,
Soothing and calm, her pillow bless;
Nor purer dreams the blessed know,
Released from earth and all its wo.
It is a lovely sight to see
A maiden in the privacy
Of her own chamber—where the day
In gentle studies glides away:
Her spirit breathes through all things round—
The dainty volumes that abound;
The silken broidery in its frame,
That might e’en Flora’s labour shame;
The easel, where no critic’s eye
A meretricious taste could spy;
The harp, on which she loves to play,
Singing the while some sweet old lay;
Here gay and placid speed the hours,
Among her music, books, and flowers—
No thought of care, or anger rude,
No breath of evil dare intrude,
No babbler, fraught with idle speech,
This maiden solitude can reach:
Save her fond Sire’s, no footstep male
Has e’er presumed to cross its pale.
Here he brings gifts of gem and flower,
And Indian birds to deck her bower;
And, dearer gifts! her mother oft
With looks of love, and accents soft,
Steals in to bless her duteous child,
And leave behind her counsels mild:
There’s not a book that here may lie,
Unseen by that unsleeping eye,
Which knows how subtly books might lure
That maiden, still so angel-pure.
Here, where a crucifix you’d see,
Did Southern maiden bend the knee;
The ‘Book of Life’ is laid, and read—
I know it by the page outspread;
Approached with love, and reverent awe,
Our maiden from its page will draw
Those hopes that light declining years,
Those promises that dry our tears!
The very air that lingers round
This sanctuary is sweet—no sound,
Except of music rich and low,
Or gentle voices, doth it know:
Listen! her hand is on the strings,
And, artless, to herself she sings.
Oh! never doubt I love thee!
When every sigh of thine
Awakens Echo’s music
Within this heart of mine!
Oh! never doubt I love thee!
Thy smile, oh! oft it gleams,
Like fabled lamps of fairies,
To cheer my midnight dreams!
Oh! never doubt I love thee!
As few have loved before;
There’s nought can change my worship
Till life itself be o’er!
The song is o’er—why doth she seem
Abstracted—lost in pleasant dream?
Her harp is left—she turns aside,
And now her taper fingers guide
The pencil.—No, ’tis all in vain!
What art could picture Deloraine?
A step is heard—with glowing cheeks
She hides the sketch—and vainly seeks
To sing as blithely as before,
While her good mother’s at the door.
O Love! thou subtle, dexterous cheat,
To such a maid to prompt deceit!
Thy wily lessons to impart
To one, till now, who knew not art;—
To teach our Mary’s heart to glow
With secret thoughts, she dare not shew
To her, who erst each feeling shared,
As if its inmost cells were bared!
Ah! why thus rend the tender bond
’Twixt duteous child and mother fond?
’Tis strange thy sudden work to see,
Begun—complete:—Telle est la vie!
Among the beaux who fluttered round
The gentle Mary, some were found
Of that unworthy class, too common,
Who speak despitefully of woman,
And who, with empty purse and head,
For fortune only, woo, and wed;
With mind as vacant as the heart,
Willing with liberty to part,
If in exchange they but obtain
The gold to forge dull Hymen’s chain:
“For gold,” they swear—(how dainty slip
The oaths from each moustachio’d lip!)
“With welcome weight can never gall,
Nor its bright charms (like Beauty’s) pall!”
Among these gems Lord Squander shone, }
A flashy—but not precious stone, }
His health, his wealth, his feelings gone: }
Misguided youth!—a prey to ills
Which spring from long-neglected bills;
Heir of an old estate, ’twas true—
Now doubly mortgaged to the Jew—
Compelled the evils to endure
Which only can an heiress cure—
“It must be so!” he sighs, “and, ’gad!
’Twill make some pretty person glad”—
For ruin tries in vain to shake
The self-assurance of a rake.
O Vanity! ’tis passing strange,
That thou, content with little change,
The weakest heads wilt always rule,
Nor from thy empire spare one fool!
Our bold Adonis, passing well
Could every widow’s jointure tell,—
Knew, certain as by rule of three,
What every spinster’s wealth must be.
One month, when hard pressed—what a pity!—
He turned his thoughts to the vile city;
But flattering Fate, with kindly rigour,
Denied him the appointed figure—
A blessed release! indeed, ’twere shame
To wed a miss with vulgar name;
Whate’er her gold, if name she lacks,
A dweller of St. Mary Axe!
Oh, dreadful!—“No, it ne’er could be;
Old family and wealth for me!
A lovely girl—good manners, too.”
So once again he did review
The season’s list—and Mary saw,
A prize he straight would seek to draw.
He dreamed not she could e’er withstand
His thousand merits; well he scanned
Her thousand acres—the rent-roll
Of her papa quite charmed his soul:
’Twas very monstrous that her sire
Of life, at fifty, would not tire;
Pity, for reasons sound and weighty,
They could not push him on to eighty!
But still—though not a first-rate catch— }
The match would be a decent match, }
And just his worn-out fortune patch. }
So, filled with his sublime intent,
To see and conquer, forth he went!
Kind were the Fates: it oft befell
Lord Squander met our youthful belle,
And often to her side he drew,
And tender adoration threw
Into his eyes—that she might guess,
The love it bored him to confess.
She heeded not those loving eyes,
Nor once remarked his frequent sighs;
Or if she thought of him again,
’Twas but to vote him stupid, vain!
A month went by—no progress made!
And duns most clamorous to be paid!
Urged by his pressing want of cash
Our Celadon became more rash,
And to explain his purpose better,
Bestirred himself, and wrote a letter.
A letter such as, well I ween,
Few ladies’ eyes have ever seen
Self-flatteries laid on so thick;
But then the patient was so sick
With debt—and with his love intense
Was mingled such a confidence;
Something like this the letter said,
“You, lovely maid, I mean to wed—
You’re far too charming, all agree
To mate with any one, save me.
To spare your blushes, I would rather
Arrange the needful with your father:
This done—though half the world may wonder,
I’ll prove myself your faithful Squander!”
Signed—sealed—the letter was despatched:
The writer yawned, “At last I’m matched!”
No fears had he—in half an hour
His homage entered Mary’s bower,
A place unmeet for words of folly;
They found her thoughtful—melancholy.
’Twas yet unopened—and a hue
Of crimson to her soft cheek flew,
By Love’s own instinct half-deceived,
She paused, she trembled, and believed
The thing she hoped—she broke the seal,
Sure that the letter must reveal
Lord Deloraine’s love, which though full well
She knew, she longed to have him tell.
But angry as Idalia’s Queen,
If, bent on journey, she had seen
Her doves towards haunts forbidden wander,
When she beheld the name of Squander
She stood one instant lost in rage,
Then cast away th’ audacious page;
She scarcely could the insult bear,
That such a brainless fop should dare
Address her thus—then once again
Thought wistfully of Deloraine.
Struggling with shame she scarce could smother,
She gave the letter to her mother;
The Lady Percy spared her ire:
“What! that known roué?—He aspire
To win my child, whom best of men
Might scarce deserve? Be quick! a pen!
I’ll write a proper answer now!”
And, ere the flush passed from her brow,
A proud rejection sent to Squander,
Set that brave youth agape with wonder;
And, while he gapes, the ghosts of bets,
Dishonoured bills, rapacious debts,
In a long line before him come,
That stretches out “till crack of doom:”
“Well, there’s no choice! and I must pity
Some golden Venus of the City!”
Were I a gossip, I could tell
Of other suitors to our Belle:
One—Sir George Vapid, hearing praised
Her wondrous beauty—half-amazed
Out of his slumbers—felt the praise,
Somewhat like love, a penchant raise;
Not in his heart, but in his brain,
For he was artless, cold, and vain,
And ne’er till doomsday had desired
To win a beauty few admired.
Had Hebe’s self come down to snare
The experienced youth of proud May Fair,
He’d but have owned her goddess when
A goddess owned her other men.
And thus it is—the word t’ admire,
Through Fashion’s circles runs like fire;
Nine out of ten, my Muse believes,
Thus pin their taste on others’ sleeves!
And so, with no more sapient reason,
He sought the Beauty of the Season.
Needs it to tell how soon his wooing,
Like my Lord Squander’s, went to ruin?
The self-same pen—as proud, as rapid—
His answer gave to Sir George Vapid.
Great was his wonder, his dejection
Gave birth for once to cool reflection:
“There’s some one else, I clearly see,
Will carry off this prodigy—
I should have liked the gem to wear,
And make my friends at Crockford’s stare!”
Hail, Envy! thou their choicest bliss,
Givest, by rebound, to fools like this!
Now change the scene, for one more gay!
At least, so Lords and Ladies say;
The maiden’s chamber fades in air,
And with its sparkle and its glare,
And music’s ever-witching spell,
The Opera wooes our youthful Belle.
For many a wise and cogent reason,
The Lady Percy had each season
An opera box; yet, though no prude,
Suspicious doubt would now intrude,
Whether ’twas right her virgin treasure
Should share that fascinating pleasure?
She scarcely knows what she intends,
And hints her scruples to her friends;
But all, inured to play and ballet,
With many a pleasantry did rally
The fears which in the mother woke:
“How very odd!—’twas quite a joke!
Why, all young ladies, when presented,
That harmless paradise frequented.
What is it you can see alarming?
Not the Cachoucha?—that’s so charming!”
“My daughters, though they sometimes flush,”
Quoth one high dame, “did never blush—
Not even in their earliest teens:
I’ve got a box beneath the Queen’s.”
Such sapient rhetoric laughed down all
The reasons Madame Mère could call
For, or against; and, thus persuaded,
Mary, she said, should do as they did—
The glories of the opera see,
And learn to speak with ecstasy,
As Grisi, like a summer bird,
Poured forth the tones, while none who heard
Had pity wherewithal to note
How much the siren strained her throat.
The night is come—and now to eyes
Behold the scarlet curtain rise,
Which never novel’s page had read,
But history, voyages, instead,
With lives of great and virtuous men,
Such as a Plutarch loved to pen;
For poetry the maid had pleaded,
And but enjoyed it—wisely weeded:
Little she dreamed, how much less knew,
What things Italian play-wrights do!
Judge then—to make her entrance easy,
The piece was “Norma,” played by Grisi!
A Priestess breaking vestal vows,
A mother twice—not once a spouse:
All frenetic with jealous rage,
Which nought but vengeance can assuage,
Grasping a keen and murderous dagger,
To yon low couch behold her stagger,
Where sleep her babes:—but love prevails,
The mother stays—the murderess fails!
When this dark picture Mary saw
She trembled—scarcely dared to draw
Her breath—the while Bellini stole
With magic witchery through her soul,
And tears relieved her; then there came
O’er her young brow the blush of shame.
Around she timid glanced her eye,
But none looked shocked, and none looked shy;
Faces, as youthful as her own,
Were placid all—nor there were shewn
The feelings wakened in her breast,
By Norma’s love and shame confessed!
The curtain falls—the horror’s o’er,
And Mary calmer breathes once more!