I. THERE was a lady -- fair, and forty too. There was a youth of scarcely two and twenty. The story of their loves is strange, yet true. I'll tell it you! Romances are so plenty In prose, that you'll be glad of something new. And so (in rhyme) for "what the devil meant he!" You think he was too young! -- but tell me whether The moth and humming-bird grow old together! II. Nature, that made the ivy-leaf and lily, Not of @3one@1 warp and woof hath made us all! Bent goes the careful, and erect the silly, And wear and tear make difference -- not small; And he that hath no money -- will-he, nill-he -- Is thrust like an old man against the wall! Grief out of some the very life-blood washes; Some shed it like ducks' backs and "Mackintoshes." III. The Lady Jane was daughter of an Earl -- Shut from approach like sea-nymph in her shell. Never a rude breath stirr'd the floating curl Upon her marble temple, and naught fell Upon the ear of the patrician girl But pride-check'd syllables, all measured well. Her suitors were her father's and not hers -- So were her debts at "Storr-and-Mortimer's." IV. Her health was lady-like. No blood, in riot, Tangled the tracery of her veined cheek, Nor seem'd her exquisite repose the quiet Of one by suffering made sweet and meek. She ate and drank, and probably lived by it, And liked her cup of tea by no means weak! Untroubled by debt, lovers, or affliction, Her pulse beat with extremely little friction. V. Yet was there fire within her soft gray eye, And room for pressure on her lip of rose; And few who saw her gracefully move by, Imagined that her feelings slept, or froze. You may have seen the cunning florist tie A thread about a bud, which never blows, But, with shut chalice from the sun and rain, Hoards up the morn -- and such the Lady Jane. VI. The old lord had had offers for her hand, The which he answer'd -- by his secretary. And, doubtless, some were for the lady's land, The men being old and valetudinary; But there were others who were all unmann'd, And fell into a life of wild vagary, In their despair. To tell his daughter of it, The cold Earl thought would be but little profit. VII. And so she bloom'd -- all fenced around with care; And none could find a way to win or woo her. When visible at home -- the Earl was there! Abroad -- her chaperon stuck closely to her! She was a sort of nun in open air, Known to but few, and intimate with fewer: And, always used to conversation guarded, She thought all men talk'd just as her papa did. VIII. Pause while you read, oh, Broadway demoiselle! And bless your stars that long before @3you@1 marry, You are a judge of passion pleaded well! For you have listen'd to Tom, Dick, and Harry, And, if kind Heaven endow'd you for a belle, At least your destiny did not miscarry! "You've had your fling" -- and now, all wise and steady, For matrimony's cares you're cool and ready! IX. And yet the bloom upon the fruit is fair! And "ignorance @3is@1 bliss" in teaching love! And guarding lips, when others have been there, Is apt uneasy reveries to move! I really think mammas should have a care! And though of nunneries I disapprove, 'Tis easier to make blushes hear to reason Than to unteach a "Saratoga Season." X. In France, where, it is said, they wiser are, Miss may not walk out, even with her cousin; And when she is abroad from bolt and bar, A well-bred man should be to her quite frozen; And so at last, like a hight-priced attar Hermetically seal'd in silk and resin, She is deliver'd safe to him who loves her; And then -- with whom she will she's hand and glove, sir! XI. I know this does not work well, and that ours Are the best wives on earth. They love their spouses, Who prize them -- as you do centennial flowers, For having bloom'd, though not in @3your@1 green-houses. 'Tis a bold wooer that dare talk of dowers. And where @3I@1 live, the milking of the cows is Too rude a task for females! Well. 'Twould hurt you, Where women are so prized, to sneer at virtue. XII. "Free-born Americans," they must have freedom! They'll stay -- if they have leave to run away. They're ministering angels when you need 'em, But 'specially want credit in Broadway. French wives are more particular how you feed 'em, The English drag you oftener to the play. But ours we quite enslave -- (more true than funny) -- With "heaven-born liberty," and @3trust@1 -- or money! XIII. Upon her @3thirtieth@1 birth-day, Lady Jane Thought sadly on the @3twenties!@1 Even the '@3teens@1, That she had said farewell to, without pain -- Leaves falling from a flower that nothing means -- Seem'd worth regathering to live again; But not like Ruth, fares Memory, who gleans After the careful Harvester of years: -- The Lady Jane thought on't with bitter tears! XIV. She glided to her mirror. From the air Glided to meet her, with its tearful eyes, A semblance sad, but beautifully fair; And gradually there stole a sweet surprise Under her lids, and as she laid the hair Back from her snowy brow, Madonna-wise, "Time, after all," she said, "a harmless flirt is!" And from that hour took kindly to her @3thirties@1. XV. And, with his honors not at all unsteady, The Decimal elect stepp'd coolly in; And having all his nights and mornings ready, He'd very little trouble to begin. And @3Twenty@1 was quite popular, -- they said he Went out of office with so little din! The old Earl did not celebrate (nor ought he) Her birth-days more. And like a dream came @3Forty@1. XVI. And on the morn of it she stood to dress, Mock'd by that flattering semblance, as before, And lifted with a smile the raven tress, That, darkening her white shoulder, swept the floor. Time had not touch'd her dazzling loveliness! "Yet is it time," she said, "that I give o'er -- @3I'm an old maid!@1 -- and though I suffer by it, I Must change my style and leave off gay society." XVII. And so she did. Her maid by her desire Comb'd her luxuriant locks behind her ears; She had her dresses alter'd to come higher, Though it dissolved the dress-maker in tears! And flung a new French hat into the fire, Which she had bought, "forgetful of her years." This t' anticipate "the world's dread laugh!" Most persons think too much of it, by half. XVIII. I do not mean to say that generally The "virtuous single" take too soon to tea; But now and then you find one who could rally At forty, and go back to twenty-three -- A handsome, plump, affectionate "Aunt Sally," With no taste for cats, flannel, and Bohea! And I would have her, spite of "he or she says," Up heart, and pin her kerchief as she pleases. XIX. Some men, 'tis said, prefer a woman fat -- Lord Byron did. Some like her very spare. Some like a lameness. (I have known one that Would go quite far enough for your despair, And @3halt@1 in time.) Some like them delicate As lilies, and with some "the only wear" Is one whose sex has spoil'd a midshipman. Some only like what pleased another man. XX. @3I@1 like one that @3likes me@1. But there's a kind Of women, very dangerous to poets, Whose hearts beat with a truth that seems like mind -- A nature that, though passionate, will show its Devotion by not being rash or blind; But by sweet study grows to love. And so it's Not odd if they are counted cold, though handsome, And never meet a man who understands 'em. XXI. By @3never@1 I mean late in life. But ah! How exquisite their love and friendship then! Perennial of soul such women are, And readers of the hearts of gifted men; And as the deep well mourns the hidden star, And mirrors the first ray that beams again, They -- be the loved light lost or dimly burning, Feel all its clouds, and trust its bright returning. XXII. In outward seeming tranquil and subdued, Their hearts beneath beat youthfully and fast. Time and imprison'd love make not a prude; And warm the gift we know to be the last; And pure is the devotion that must brood Upon @3your@1 hopes alone -- for @3hers@1 are past! Trust me, "a rising man" rose seldom higher, But some dear, sweet old maid has pull'd the wire. XXIII. The Lady Jane, (pray do not think that hers Was quite the character I've drawn above. Old maids, like young, have various calibres, And hers was moderate, though she was "a love,") The Lady Jane call'd on the dowagers -- Mainly her slight acquaintance to improve, But partly with a docile wish to know What solaces of age were @3comme il faut@1. XXIV. They stared at her plain hat and air demure, But answer'd her with some particularity; And she was edified you may be sure, And added vastly to her popularity. She found a dozen mad on furniture, Five on embroidery, and none on charity; But her last call -- the others were but short ones -- Turn'd out to Lady Jane of some importance. XXV. The door was open'd by a Spanish page -- A handsome lad in green with bullet buttons, Who look'd out like a trulian from a cage, And deign'd to glance at the tall menial but once, Then bent, with earnestness beyond his age, His eyes, (you would have liked to see them shut once, The fringes were so long) -- on Lady Jane. The varlet clearly thought her not so plain. XXVI. And bounding up the flower-laden stair, He waited her ascent, then open flung A mirror, clear as 'twere a door of air, Which on its silver hinge with music swung -- Contrived that never foot should enter there Unheralded by that melodious tongue. This delicate alarum is worth while More 'specially with carpets of three-pile. XXVII. Beyond a gallery extended, cool, And softly lighted, and, from dome to floor, Hung pictures -- mostly the Venetian school; Each "worth a Jew's eye" -- very likely more; And drapery, gold-broider'd in Stamboul, Closed the extremity in lieu of door: This the page lifted, and disclosed to view The boudoir of the Countess Pasibleu. XXVIII. It was a small pavilion lined with pink, -- Mirrors and silk all, save the door and sky-light, The latter of stain'd glass. (You would not think How juvenescent is a rosy high light!) Upon the table were seen pen and ink, (Two things I cannot say have stood in @3my@1 light,) Amid a host of trinkets, toys, and fans; The table in the style of Louis Quinze. XXIX. A singular and fragile little creature Upon the cushions indolently lay, With waning life in each transparent feature, But youth in her bright lips' ethereal play; In short, the kind of creature that would meet your Conception of a transmigrating fay -- The dark eyes, not at all worn out or weary, Kindling for transfer to some baby Peri! XXX. The rest used up, past mending. Yet her tones Were wildly, deeply, exquisitely clear; Though voice is not a thing of flesh and bones, And probably goes @3up@1 when they stay @3here@1. (I do not know how much of Smith and Jones Will bear translating to "the better sphere," But ladies, certainly, when they shall climb to't, Will get their dimples back -- tho' not the rhyme to't.) XXXI. Her person was dress'd very like her soul -- In fine material most loosely worn. A cobweb cashmere struggled to control Ringlets that laugh'd the filmy folds to scorn, And, from the shawls in which she nestled, stole The smallest slipper ever soil'd or torn. You would not guess her age by looking at her, Nor, from my sketch, of course. We'll leave that matter. XXXII. "My dear!" the Countess said, (by this time she Had ceased the Weather, poor old man, to hammer -- He gets it, in these morning calls, @3pardie!@1 And Lady Jane had hinted with a stammer Her errand -- somewhat delicate, you see,) "My dear, how very odd! I fear I am a Poor judge of age -- (who made that funny bonnet?) Indeed, I always turn'd my back upon it! XXXIII. "Time has no business in one's house, my dear! I'm not at home to any of my creditors. They send their nasty bills in, once a year, And Time's are like Mortality's -- mere '@3dead@1 letters.' Besides, what comfort is there living here, If every stupid hour's to throw Death's head at us? (Lend me a pin, dear!) Time at last will stop us: But, come to that -- we're free by @3habeas corpus@1. XXXIV. ("Fie, what a naughty shawl! No @3expose@1, I trust, love, eh? Hold there, thou virtuous pin!) And so you really have come out to-day To look you up some suitable new sin!" "Oh, Countess!" "Did you never write a play? Nor novel? Well, you really should begin! For, (hark, my dear!) the publishers are biters, Not at the book's fine @3title@1 -- but the writer's. XXXV. "You're half an authoress; for, as my maid says, 'Begun's half done,' and you've your @3title@1 writ. I quote from Colburn, and as what 'the trade' says Is paid for, it is well-consider'd wit. Genius, undoubtedly, of many grades is, But as to us, we do not need a bit. 'Three volumes,' says the bargain, 'not too thin.' You don't suppose I'd throw him genius in!" XXXVI. "But @3fame@1, dear Countess!" At the word there flush'd A color to her cheek like fever's glow, And in her hand unconsciously she crush'd The fringes of her shawl, and bending low To hide the tears that suddenly had gush'd Into her large, dark eyes, she murmur'd "No! Th' inglorious agony of conquering pain Has drunk that dream up. I have lived in vain! XXXVII. "Yet have I set my soul upon the string, Tense with the energy of high desire, And trembled with the arrow's quivering spring, To launch upon ambition's flight of fire! And never lark so hush'd his heart to sing, Or, as he sang, nerved wing to bear it higher, As I have striven my wild heart to tame And melt its love, pride, passion -- into fame! XXXVIII. "Oh, poor the flattery to call it mine For trifles which beguiled an hour of pain, Or, on the echoing heels of mirth and wine, Crept through the chambers of a throbbing brain. @3Worthily@1, have I never written line! And when they talk to me of @3fame@1 I gain, In very bitterness of soul I mock it, -- And put the nett proceeds into my pocket! XXXIX. "And so, my dear, -- let not the market vary, -- I bid the critics, @3pro@1 and @3con@1, defiance; And then I'm fond of being literary, And have a tenderness for 'sucking lions.' My friend the Dutchess has a fancy dairy: -- Cheeses or poets, curds or men of science -- It comes to the same thing. But, truce to mocking -- Suppose you try my color in a stocking!" XL. I need not state the ratiocination By which the Lady Jane had so decided -- Not quite upon the regular vocation -- Of course you knew she was too rich (or @3I@1 did) To care with Costard for "remuneration;" But feeling that her life like Lethe glided, She thought 'twould be advisable to bag her a Few brace of rapids from her friend's Niagara. XLI. "Well, Countess! what shall be my @3premier pas?@1 Must I propitiate the penny-a-liners? Or would a 'sucking lion' stoop so far As to be fed and petted by a dry nurse? I cannot shine -- but I can @3see@1 a star -- Are there not worshippers as well as shiners? I will be ruled implicitly by you: -- My stocking's innocent -- how dye it @3blue?"@1 XLII. The Countess number'd on her fingers, musing: -- "I've several that I might make you over, And not be inconsolable at losing; But, really, as you've neither spouse nor lover, 'Most any of my pets would be amusing, Particularly if you're not above a Discreet flirtation. Are you? How's the Earl? Does he still treat you like a little girl? XLIII. "How do you see your visitors? Alone? Does the Earl sleep at table after dinner? Have you had many lovers? Dear me! None? Was not your father something of a sinner? Who is the nicest man you've ever known? Pray, does the butler bring your letters in, or First take them to the Earl? Is he not rather A surly dog? -- the butler, not your father." XLIV. To these inquiries the Lady Jane Replied with nods, or something as laconic, For on the Countess rattled, might and main, With a rapidity Napoleonic; Then mused and said, "'Twill never do, it's plain -- The poet must be warranted Platonic! But, query -- how to find you such an oddity? My dear, they @3all@1 make love! -- it's their commodity! XLV. "The poet's on the look-out for a scene -- The painter for a 'novel situation;' And either does much business between The little pauses of a declaration -- Noting the way in which you sob or lean, Or use your handkerchief in agitation. I've known one -- making love like Roderick Random -- Get off his knees and make a memorandum! XLVI. "You see they're always ready for their trade, And have a speech as pat as a town-crier; And so, my dear, I'm naturally afraid To trust you with these gentlemen-on-fire. I knew a most respectable old maid A dramatist made love to -- just to try her! She hung herself, of course -- but in that way He got some pretty touches for his play. XLVII. "How shall we manage it? I say, with tears, I've only two that are not rogues at bottom; And one of these would soon be 'over ears' In love with you, -- but that he hasn't got 'em! They were cut off by the New Zealanders -- (As he invariably adds) ''od-rot-'em!' (Meaning the savages.) He's quite a poet, (He wears his hair so that you wouldn't know it,) XLVIII. "In his ideas, I mean. (I really @3am@1 at a Stand-still about you.) Well -- this man, one day, Took in his head to own the earth's diameter, From @3zenith@1 through to @3nadir!@1 (They @3do@1 say He kill'd his wife -- or threw a ham at her -- Or something -- so he had to go away -- That's neither here nor there.) His name is Wieland, And under him exactly lies New Zealand. XLIX. "I'm not certain if his 'seat' 's, or no, In the Low Countries. But the sky above it Of course is his; and for some way below He has a right to dig and to improve it; But under him, a million miles or so, Lies land that's @3not@1 his, -- and the law can't move it. It cut poor Wieland's @3nadir@1 off, no doubt -- And so he sail'd to buy the owner out. L. "I never quite made out the calculation -- But plump against his cellar floor, bin 2, He found a tribe had built their habitation, Whose food was foreigners and kangaroo. They would sell out -- but, to his consternation, They charged him -- all the fattest of his crew! At last they caught and roasted every one -- But he escaped by being under-done!" LI. That such a lion was well worth his feed, Confess'd with merry tears the Lady Jane; But, that he answer'd to her present need, (A literary pet,) was not so plain. She thought she'd give the matter up, indeed, Or turn it over and so call again. However, as her friend had mention'd two, Perhaps the other might be made to do. LII. "I'm looking," said the Countess, "for a letter From my old playmate, Isabella Gray. 'Tis Heaven knows how long since I have met her; She ran away and married one fine day -- Poor girl! She might have done a great deal better! The boy that she has sent to me, they say, Is handsome, and has talents very striking: So young, too -- you can spoil him to your liking. LIII. "Her letter will amuse you. You must know That, from her marriage-day, her lord has shut her Securely up in an old French chateau; Where, with her children and no woman but her, He plays the old school gentleman; and so Her worldly knowledge stopp'd at bread and butter. She thinks I may be changed by time -- for, may be, I've lost a tooth or got another baby. LIV. "Heigh-ho! -- 'tis evident we're made of clay, And harden unless kept in tears and shade; This fashionable sunshine dries away Much that we err in losing, I'm afraid! I wonder what my guardian angels say About the sort of woman I have made! I wish I could begin my life again! What think you of Pythagoras, Lady Jane?" LV. The Countess, all this while, was running over The pages of a letter, closely cross'd: -- "I wish," she said, "my most devoted lover Took half the trouble that this scrawl has cost! Though some of it is quite a flight above a Sane woman's comprehension. Tut! Where was't! There is a passage here -- the name's Beaulevres -- His chateau's in the neighborhood of Sevres. LVI. "The boy's call'd Jules. Ah, here it is! @3My child Brings you this letter. I've not much to say More than you know of him, if he has smiled When you have seen him. In his features play The light from which his soul has been beguiled -- The blessed Heaven I lose with him to-day. I ask you not to love him -- he is there! And you have loved him -- without wish or prayer!@1 LVII. @3His father sends him forth for fame and gold -- An angel on this errand! I have striven Against it -- but he is not mine to hold. They say 'tis wrong to wish to stay him, even, And that my pride's poor -- my ambition cold! Alas! to get him only back to Heaven Is my one passionate prayer! Think me not wild -- 'Tis that I have an angel for my child!@1 LVIII. @3They say that he has genius. I but see That he gets wisdom as the flower gets hue, While others hive it like the toiling bee; That, with him, all things beautiful keep new, And every morn the first morn seems to be -- So freshly look abroad his eyes of blue! What he has written seems to me no more Than I have thought a thousand times before!@1 LIX. @3Yet not upon his gay career to Fame Broods my foreboding tear. I wish it won -- My prayer speeds on his spirit to its aim -- But in his chamber wait I for my son! -- When darken'd is ambition's star of fame -- When the night's fever of unrest is on -- With the unbidden sadness, the sharp care, I fly from his bright hours, to meet him there!@1 LX. @3Forgive me if I prate! Is't much -- is't wild -- To hope -- to pray -- that you will sometimes creep To the dream-haunted pillow of my child, Keeping sweet watch above his fitful sleep? Blest like his mother, if in dream he smiled, Or, if he wept, still blest with him to weep; Rewarded -- oh, for how much more than this! -- By his awaking smile -- his morning kiss!@1 LXI. @3I know not how to stop! He leaves me well; Life, spirit, health, in all his features speak; His foot bounds with the spring of a gazelle; But watch him -- stay! well thought on! -- there's a streak Which the first faltering of his tongue will tell, Long ere the bright blood wavers on his cheek -- A little bursted vein, that, near his heart, Looks like a crimson thread half torn apart.@1 LXII. @3So, trusting not his cheek by morning light, When hope sits mantling on it, seek his bed In the more tranquil watches of the night, And ask this tell-tale how his heart has sped. If well -- its branching tracery shows bright; But if its sanguine hue look cold and dead, Ah, Gertrude! let your ministering be As you would answer it, in heaven, to me!"@1 LXIII. Enter the page: -- "Miladi's maid is waiting!" -- A hint, (that it was time to dress for dinner,) Which puts a stop in London to all prating. As far as goes the letter you're a winner, The rest of it to flannel shirts relating -- When Jules should wear his thicker, when his thinner. The Countess laugh'd at Lady Jane's adieu: She thought the letter touching. Pray, don't you? LXIV. I have observed that Heaven, in answering prayer, (This is not meant to be a pious stanza -- Only a fact that has a pious air.) (We're very sure, I think, to have an answer;) But I've observed, I would remark, that where Our plans are ill-contrived, as oft our plans are, Kind Providence goes quite another way To bring about the end for which we pray. LXV. In this connection I would also add, That a discreet young angel, (@3bona fide@1,) Accompanied our amiable lad; And that he walk'd not out, nor stepp'd aside he, Nor met with an adventure, good or bad, (Although he enter'd London on a Friday,) Nor ate, nor drank, nor closed his eye a minute, Without this angel's guiding finger in it. LXVI. His mother, as her letter seems to show, Expected him, without delay or bother, -- Portmanteau, carpet-bag, and all -- to go Straight to her old friend's house -- (forsooth! what other!) The angel, who would seem the world to know, Advised the boy to drive to Mivart's rather He did. The angel, (as I trust is plain,) Lodged in the vacant heart of Lady Jane. LXVII. A month in town these gentlemen had been At date of the commencement of my story. The angel's occupations you have seen, If you have read what I have laid before ye. Jules had seen Dan O'Connell and the Queen, And girded up his loins for fame and glory, And changed his old integuments for better; And then he call'd and left his mother's letter. LXVIII. That female hearts grow never old in towns -- That taste grows rather young with dissipation -- That dowagers dress not in high-neck'd gowns -- Nor are, at fifty, proof against flirtation -- That hospitality is left to clowns, Or elbow'd from the world by ostentation -- That a "tried friend" should not be tried again -- That boys at seventeen are partly men -- LXIX. Are truths, as pat as paving-stones, in cities. The contrary is true of country air; (Where the mind rusts, which is a thousand pities, While still the cheek keeps fresh and debonnair.) But what I'm trying in this verse to hit is, That Heaven, in answering Jules's mother's prayer, Began by thwarting all her plans and suavities; As needs must -- @3vide@1 the just-named depravities. LXX. Some stanzas back, we left the ladies going, At six, to dress for dinner. Time to dine I always give in poetry, well knowing That, to jump over it in half a line, Looks, (let us be sincere, dear muse!) like showing Contempt we @3do not@1 feel, for meat and wine. Dinner! Ye Gods! What is there more respectable! For eating, who, save Byron, ever check'd a belle! LXXI. 'Tis ten -- say half-past. Lady Jane has dined, And dress'd as simply as a lady may. A card lies on her table "To Remind" -- 'Tis odd she never thought of it to-day. But she is pleasantly surprised to find 'Tis Friday night, the Countess's @3soiree@1. Back rolls the chariot to Berkely Square. If you have dined, dear reader, let's go there! LXXII. We're early. In the cloak-room smokes the urn, The house-keeper behind it, fat and solemn; Steady as stars the fresh-lit candles burn, And on the stairs the new-blown what d'ye-call 'em Their nodding cups of perfume overturn; The page leans idly by a marble column, And stiffly a tall footman stands above, Looking between the fingers of his glove, LXXIII. All bright and silent, like a charmed palace -- The spells wound up, the fays to come at twelve; The house-keeper a witch, (@3cum grano salis;@1) The handsome page, perhaps, a royal elve Condemn'd to servitude by fairy malice; (I wish the varlet had these rhymes to delve!) Some magic hall, it seems, for revel bright, And Lady Jane the spirit first alight. LXXIV. Alas! here vanishes the foot of Pleasure! She -- like an early guest -- goes in before, And comes, when all are gone, for Memory's treasure; But is not found upon the crowded floor; (Unless, indeed, some charming woman says you're A love, which makes close quarters less a bore.) I've seen her, down Anticipation's vista, As large as life -- and walk'd straight on, and miss'd her! LXXV. With a declining taste for making friends, One's taste for the fatigue of pleasure's past; And then, one sometimes wonders which transcends -- The first hour of a gay night, or the last. (Beginners "burn the candle at both ends," And find the @3middle@1 brightest -- @3that@1 is fast!) But a good rule at parties, (to keep up a Mercurial air,) is to @3come in at supper@1. LXXVI. I mean that you should go to bed at nine And sleep till twelve -- take coffee or green tea, Dress and go out -- (this was a way of mine When looking up the world in '33) -- Sup at the ball -- (it's not a place for wine) -- Sleep, or not, after, as the case may be. You've the advantage, thus, when all are yawning, Of growing rather fresher toward morning. LXXVII. But, after thirty, @3here's@1 your best "Elixir:" Breakfast betimes. Do something worth your while By twelve or one -- (this makes the blood run quick, sir!) Dine with some man or woman @3who will smile@1. Have little cause to care how politics are, "Let not the sun go down upon your" bile; And, if well-married, rich, and not too clever, I don't see why you shouldn't live forever. LXXVIII. Short-lived is your "sad dog" -- and yet, we hear, "Whom the gods love die young." Of course the ladies Are safe in loving what the gods hold dear; And the result, I'm very much afraid, is, That if he "has his day," it's "neither here Nor there!" But it is time our hero made his Appearance on the carpet, Lady Jane -- (I'll mend this vile pen, and begin again.) LXXIX. The Lady Jane walk'd thro' the bright rooms, breaking The glittering silence with her flowing dress, Whose pure folds seem'd a coy resistance making To the fond air; while, to her loveliness The quick-eyed mirrors breathlessly awaking, Acknowledged not one radiant line the less That not on @3them@1 she look'd before she faded! Neglected gentlemen don't do as they did: -- LXXX. No! -- for, 'twixt @3our@1 quicksilver and a woman, Nature has put no glass, for non-conductor, And, while she's imaged in their bosoms, few men Can make a calm, cold mirror their instructor; For, when beloved, we deify what's human -- When piqued, we mock like devils! But I've pluck'd a Digression here. It's no use, my contending -- Fancy will ramble while the pen is mending! LXXXI. A small room on the left, (I'll get on faster If you're impatient,) very softly lit By lamps conceal'd in bells of alabaster, Lipp'd like a lily, and "as white as it," With a sweet statue by a famous master, Just in the centre, (but not dress'd a bit!) This dim room drew aside our early-comer, Who thought it like a moonlight night in summer. LXXXII. And so it was. For, through an opening door, Came the soft breath of a conservatory, And, bending its tall stem the threshold o'er, Swung in a crimson flower, the tropics' glory; And, as you gazed, the vista lengthen'd more, And statues, lamps, and flowers -- but, to my story! The room was cushion'd like a Bey's divan; And in it -- (Heaven preserve us!) -- sat a man! LXXXIII. At least, as far as boots and pantaloons Are symptoms of a man, there seem'd one there -- Whatever was the number of his Junes. She look'd again, and started! In a chair, Sleeping as if his eyelids had been moons, Reclined, with flakes of sunshine in his hair, (Or, what look'd like it,) a fair youth, quite real, But of a beauty like the Greek ideal. LXXXIV. He slept, like Love by slumber overtaken, His bow unbent, his quiver thrown aside; The lip might to a manlier arch awaken -- The nostril, so serene, dilate with pride: But now he lay, of all his masks forsaken, And childhood's sleep was there, and naught beside; And his bright lips lay smilingly apart, Like a torn crimson leaf with pearly heart. LXXXV. Now Jules Beaulevres, Esq. -- (this was he) -- Had never been "put up" to London hours; And thinking he was simply ask'd to tea, Had been, since seven, looking at the flowers -- No doubt extremely pleasant, -- but, you see, A great deal of it rather overpowers; And possibly, that very fine exotic He sat just under, was a slight narcotic. LXXXVI. At any rate, when it was all admired, -- As quite his motion of a heaven polite, (@3Minus@1 the angels,) -- he felt very tired -- As one, who'd been all day sight-seeing, @3might!@1 And having by the Countess been desired To make himself at home, he did so, quite. He begg'd his early coming might not fetter her, And she went out to dine, the old -- @3etcetera@1. LXXXVII. And thinking of his mother -- and his bill At Mivart's -- and of all the sights amazing Of which, the last few days, he'd had his fill -- And choking when he thought of fame -- and gazing Upon his varnish'd boots, (as young men will,) And wond'ring how the shops could pay for glazing -- And also, (here his thoughts were getting dim,) Whether a certain smile was meant for him -- LXXXVIII. And murm'ring over, with a drowsy bow, The speech he made the Countess, when he met her, And smiling, with closed eyelids, (thinking how He should describe her in the morrow's letter) -- And sighing "Good-night!" (he was dreaming now) -- Jules dropp'd into a world he liked much better; But left his earthly mansion unprotected: Well, sir! 'twas robb'd -- as might have been expected! LXXXIX. The Lady Jane gazed on the fair boy sleeping, And in his lips' rare beauty read his name; And to his side with breathless wonder creeping, Resistless to her heart the feeling came, That, to her yearning love's devoted keeping, Was given the gem within that fragile frame. And bending, with almost a mother's bliss, To his bright lips, she seal'd it with a kiss! XC. Oh, in that kiss how much of heaven united! What haste to pity -- eagerness to bless! What thirsting of a heart, long pent and slighted, For something fair, yet human, to caress! How fathomless the love so briefly plighted! What kiss thrill'd ever more -- sinn'd ever less! So love the angels, sent with holy mercies! And so love poets -- in their early verses! XCI. If, in well-bred society, ("hear! hear!") If, in this "wrong and pleasant" world of ours There beats a pulse that seraphs may revere -- If Eden's birds, when frighted from its flowers, Clung to one deathless seed, still blooming here -- If Time cut ever down, 'mid blighted hours, A bliss that will spring up in bliss again -- 'Tis woman's love. This I believe. Amen! XCII. To guard from ill, to help, watch over, warn -- To learn, for his sake, sadness, patience, pain -- To seek him with most love when most forlorn -- Promised the mute kiss of the Lady Jane. And thus, in sinless purity is born, Alway, the love of woman. So, again, I say, that up to kissing -- later even -- A woman's love may have its feet in heaven. XCIII. Jules open'd (at the kiss) his large blue eyes, And calmly gazed upon the face above him, But never stirr'd, and utter'd no surprise -- Although his situation well might move him. He seem'd so cool, (my @3lyre@1 shall tell no @3lies@1,) That Lady Jane half thought she shouldn't love him; When suddenly the Countess Pasibleu Enter'd the room with "Dear me! how d'ye do?" XCIV. Up sprang the boy -- amazement on his brow! But the next instant, through his lips there crept A just awakening smile, and, with a bow, Calmly he said: "'Twas only while I slept The angels did not vanish -- until now." A speech, I think, quite worthy an adept. The Countess stared, and Lady Jane began To fear that she had kiss'd a nice young man. XCV. Jules had that precious quality call'd @3tact;@1 And having made a very warm beginning, He suddenly grew grave, and rather back'd; As if incapable of further sinning. 'Twas well he did so, for, it is a fact, The ladies like, themselves, to do the winning. In @3female@1 Shakspeares, Desdemonas shine; And the Othellos "seriously incline." XCVI. So, with a manner quite reserved and plain, Jules ask'd to be presented, and then made Many apologies to Lady Jane For the eccentric part that he had play'd. Regretted he had slept -- confess'd with pain He took her for an angel -- was afraid He had been rude -- abrupt -- did he alarm Her much? -- and might he offer her his arm? XCVII. And as they ranged that sweet conservatory, He heeded not the flowers he walk'd among: But such an air of earnest listening wore he, That a dumb statue must have found a tongue; And like a child that hears a fairy story, His parted lips upon her utterance hung. He seem'd to know by instinct, (else how was it?) That people love the bank where they deposit. XCVIII. And closer, as the moments faster wore, The slender arm within her own she press'd; And yielding to the magic spell he bore -- The earnest truth upon his lips impress'd -- She lavishly @3told@1 out the golden ore Hoarded a life-time in her guarded breast. And Jules, throughout, was beautifully tender -- Although he did not always comprehend her. XCIX. And this in him was no deep calculation, But in good truth, as well as graceful seeming, Abandonment complete to admiration -- His soul gone from his as it goes in dreaming. I wish'd to make this little explanation, Misgiving that his tact might go for scheming; I can assure you it was never plann'd; I have it from his angel, (second hand.) C. And from the same authentic source I know, That Lady Jane still thought him but a lad; Though why the deuse she didn't treat him so, Is quite enough to drive conjecture mad! Perhaps she thought that it would make him grow To take more beard for granted that he had. A funny friend to lend a nice young man to! 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