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Or when musing alone, if Mamma should annoy, Oh! reflect on past moments of pleasure and joy; When she frowns “ at your flirting, or rising so late, “That you always for church make the Dowager wait; “That your dress, e’en a thoughtless Parisian would blame, “Or a marchand des modes,' at St. James's, disclaim." Let this eloquence silently all pass away; She was destin’d to hear full as bright a display ; On discarding her furbelows, buckram, and frill; Ere triumphant “ Ecartie” had banish'd quadrille ; When Nature alone, gave the cheek its soft bloom, And the high man of fashion was known from his groom; “ Tout etoit pour mieux,” in court, pulpit, or stage ; (Like the Optimist drawn in Voltaire's witty page ;)* And you, my sweet girl! will repeat the same tone, If with candour, some twenty years hence, you will own; When the Gordian knot has been joyfully tied,

And the matron succeeds to the beautiful bride ;

As lovely young ** at first is brought out,
Each belle to eclipse at the concert or rout;

* Candide.

When emerg'd from the Bonne,” from the governess hand,
She believes it enchantment, and quite fairy land;
Thinks existence, too fleeting, for all it contains,
Like the poor truant school-boy, escap'd from his chains ;
You will praise then each beauty the pride of her hour,
(Who rul'd the Beau-monde" with omnipotent power,)
Your “ Trousseauand equipage fondly recall ;
With garter'd instalments in Abbey and Hall.
Yet phantoms, as brilliant, their path will adorn,
While our fav’rites, and fashions, are treated with scorn :
They'll boast of refinements and joys of their own,
When we sink in oblivion, forgot, and unknown,

When a fresh set of actors appear in our room,

And your Hebe-like figure is cold in the tomb.

Seize then, the brief moments, our treasure and boast,
A few golden seasons, I fear, at the most,
Ere the shadows of Autumn will darken our May,
Or those bright auburn ringlets must fade into grey;
And till hoary December, terrific and old,
Freezing all but your bosom, makes * * too cold;
May you soothe the poor widow, the orphan's sad tear ;
While the hand that bestows makes the gift doubly dear ;



May you brighten with hope, each dark scene of distress,
And enjoy that first pleasure, the pleasure to bless.
Then revisit gay London, which never can tire,
Her circles of splendour and mirth to inspire ;
While each wish is fulfilld to your heart's latest beat,

And an old feudal coronet laid at your feet.

And must that fine figure be turn'd into clay,
Dissolv'd like a clod of the valley away?
Her friends and connexions no longer delight,
But vanish for ever in darkness and night?

The decree has gone forth, and in vain to repine ;
Yet a garland of cypress despondingly twine;
When recalling the scenes of life's juvenile hour,
(Ere Time, that intruder! display'd his vile power ;)
And tho’ vain each endeavour to bring to our view,

The landscape as brilliant, as Nature first drew;

Till our spirit returns to the Being who gave,
And the earth-worm shall crawl o'er our desolate grave;

May Providence still each kind blessing extend, Still forgiveness with mercy harmoniously blend; And each heart-rending image both calm and repel, As sighing, we hear, poor *** 's knell.



“ An oaken seat,

“A maple dish, my furniture should be ;
“Crisp, yellow leaves my bed; the hooting owl,
“My night-watch-tir'd of the world, and all
“ Its vanity.”


What ! leave the sphere by Providence design'd,

Renounce each hope of honourable fame, Renounce each impulse that inspires the mind,

And dying leave an unrecorded name.

* The late Sir F- B-tt, with whom the Author was walking in Kensington Gardens.

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