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Next came the interesting beau,
The trifling youth-Frivolio ;
He came to see--and to be seen,
Grace and good breeding in his mien;
Shone all Delcroix upon his head,
The West-end spoke in all he said ;
And in his neckcloth's studied fold,
Sat Fashion, on a throne of gold.
He came, impatient to resign
What heart he had, at Laura's shrine:
Though deep in self-conceit encas'd,
He learnt to bow to Laura's taste;
Consulted her on new quadrilles,
Spot waistcoats, lavender, and gills;
As will’d the proud and fickle fair,
He tied his cloth, and curl'd his hair;
Varied his manners--or his clothes,
And chang'd his tailor--or his oaths.

Oh! how did Laura love to vex The fair one of the other sex ! For him she practised every art That captivates and plagues the heart. Did he bring tickets for the play? No-Laura had the spleen to-day. Did he escort her to the ball ? No-Laura would not dance at all. Did he look grave ?—“the fool was sad ;". Was he jocose?," the man was mad.” E'en when he knelt before her feet, And there, in accent soft and sweet, Laid rank and fortune, heart and hand, At Laura's absolute command, Instead of blushing her consent, She “ wonder'd what the blockhead meant."

Yet still the fashionable fool
Was proud of Laura's ridicule ;
Though still despised, he still pursued,
In ostentatious servitude,

Sceming, like lady's lap-dog, vain
Of being led by beauty's chain.
He knelt, he gaz'd, he sigh'd, and swore,
While 'twas the fashion to adore ;
When years had pass'd, and Laura's frown
Had ceas'd to terrify the town,
He hurried from the fallen grace,
To idolize a newer face:
Constant to nothing was the ass,
Save to his follies--and his glass.

The next to gain the beauty's ear
Was William Lisle, the sonneteer,
Well deem'd the prince of rhyme and blank;
For long and deeply has he drank
Of Helicon's poetic tide,

Where nonsense flows, and numbers glide ; · And slumber'd on the herbage green,

That decks the banks of Hippocrene.
In short-his very footmen know it-
William is mad-or else a poet.*

He came—and rhym'd-he talk'd of fountains,
Of Pindus, and Pierian mountains ;
Of wandering lambs, of gurgling rills,
And roses, and Castalian hills;
He thought a lover's vow grew sweeter,
When it meanderd into metre;
And planted every speech with flowers,
Fresh blooming from Aonian bowers.

" Laura-I perish for your sake," (Here he digress'd, about a lake ;) “ The charms thy features all disclose,”(A simile about a rose ;) “ Have set my very soul on fire,”. (An episode about his lyre;) “ Though you despise--I still must love,"-(Something about a turtle dove ;)

* “ Aut insanit homo,-aut versus facit.”-HOR.

“ All Bedlam--or Parnassus is let out." - POPE.

“ Alas! in death's unstartled sleep,”(Just here he did his best to weep;)

Laura, the willow soon shall wave,
Over thy lover's lowly grave."
Then he began, with pathos due,
To speak of cypress and of rue :
But Fortune's unforeseen award
Parted the beauty from the bard ;
For Laura, in that evil hour
When unpropitious stars had power,
Unmindful of the thanks she owed,
Lighted her taper with an ode.
Poor William all his vows forgot,
And hurried from the fatal spot,
In all the bitterness of quarrel,
To write lampoons—and dream of laurel.

Years fleeted by, and every grace
Began to fade from Laura's face;
Through every circle whispers ran,
And aged dowagers began
To gratify their secret spite :-
“ How shocking Laura looks to-night!
We know her waiting-maid is clever,
But

rouge won't make one young for ever ; Laura should think of being sage, You know--she's of a certain age.”

Her wonted wit began to fail,
Her eye grew dim, her features pale;
Her fame was past,—her race was done,
Her lovers left her one by one;
Her slaves diminish'd by degrees,
They ceas'd to fawn-as she to please.
Last of the gay deceitful crew,
Chremes, the usurer, withdrew;
By many an art he strove to net
The guineas of the rich coquette ;
But (so the adverse fates decreed),
Chremes and Laura disagreed ;

For Chremes talked too much of stocks,
And Laura of her

opera

box.
Unhappy Laura! sadness marr'd
What tints of beauty time had spared ;
For all her wide extended sway
Had faded, like a dream, away;
And they that lov'd her passid her by,
With alter'd or averted eye.
That silent scorn, that chilling air
The fallen tyrant could not bear;
She could not live, when none admir'd,
And perish'd, as her reign expir'd.

I gaz'd upon that lifeless form,
So late with Hope and Fancy warm;
That pallid brow—that eye of jet,
Where lustre seem'd to linger yet;
Where sparkled through an auburn tress
The last dim light of loveliness,
Whose trembling ray was only seen,
To bid us sigh for what had been.
Alas! I said, my wavering soul
Was torn from woman's weak control;
But when, amid the evening's gloom,
I look'd on Laura's early tomb;
And thought on her, so bright and fair,
That slumber'd in oblivion there;
That calm resolve I could not keep,
And then I wept--as now I weep.

SONNETS.

WRITTEN ON THE LAST LEAF OF SHAKSPEARE.

So now the charmed book is ended, Mary!

The wand is broken, and the spell is o'er ; And thou hast mused or smiled o'er witch and faery,

Till Fancy's imps familiar semblance wore.

What though thy tongue's sweet song be distant far?

By that soft bosom, and that gentle eye,

I knew thee genuine child of poesy, When erst thou told'st me of that twin-born star,

Divinest SPENSER! When did either seem (As they to thee) two boats upon one stream, Wafting the rapt soul to some region fair, If meek-eyed Genius were not hov'ring there? Never! therefore, thrice-happy Maiden, wander on, Again the wand is whole, the spell is not yet gone!

FROM HARTLAND POINT.

Gales of th' Atlantic ! blithely are ye blowing !

What news bring ye from o'er the Ocean waste ? Tides of th’ Atlantic! fiercely are ye flowing!

Mysterious agents! whither do ye haste? Answer! for here I stand, as once of yore*

That glorious demigod, Alcmena's son,

Foil'd all his foes, and all his labours done,
Companionless, and listen'd to the roar
Of waves that seem'd to live, and gaz'd intent

Where the red Sun down in the west was setting,

And saw the vision, whose bright shape besetting The dreams of the Liguriant him first sent Over the dim horizon! Matchless race! To seek the Great Light in his hiding place.

DUNSTER HERMITAGE.

HERE were a bower for Love! This balmy grot

Cresting the mountain summit, whiles around The thick oaks shut the world from this sweet spot,

The great sea rolls beyond with ceaseless sound ! On such an eve as this, O Mary, be

In such a place as this, and I will tell

My love with holier warmth, touch'd by the spell Intense of heaven, of air, of earth, and sea.

* Herculis Promontorium.-CAMDEN.

+ Columbus.

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