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And this I say without peculiar reference
To England, France, or any other nationBecause they know the world, and are at ease, And being natural, naturally please.
XXXIX. 'Tis true, your budding Miss is very charming,
But shy and awkward at first coming out, So much alarmed, that she is quite alarming,
All giggle, blush,- half pertness, and half pout; And glancing at Mamma, for fear there's harm in
What you, she, it, or they, may be about,
Used in politest circles to express
Close to the lady as a part of dress, Her word the only law which he obeys.
His is no sinecure, as you may guess;
That Italy's a pleasant place to me,
And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree Festoon’d, much like the back scene of a play
Or melodrame, which people flock to see,
Without being forc'd to bid my groom be sure
Because the skies are not the most secure; I know too that, if stopp'd upon my route,
Where the green alleys windingly allure, Reeling with grapes red waggons choke the way, In England 'uwould be dung, dust, or a dray.
XLIII. I also like to dine on becaficas,
To see the Sun set, sure he'll rise to-morrow, Not through a misty morning twiukling weak as
A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow, But with all Heaven t'himself; ihat day will break as
Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forc'd to borrow That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers Where reeking London's smoky cauldron simmers.
Which melts like kisses from a female inouth,
With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in,
That not a single accent seems uncouth,
From the rich peasant-cheek of ru:Idy bronze,
Of rays that say a thousand things at once,
To the high dama's brow, more melancholy, •
But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance, Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.
. XLVI. Eve of the land which still is Paradise !
Italian beauty! did'st thou not inspire Raphael, who died in thy embrace, and vies
With all we know of Heaven, or can desire, In what he hath bequeath'd us?-in what guise,
Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre, Would words describe thy past and present glow, Wbile yet Canoya can create below?
XLVII. « England! with all thy faults I love thee still, »
I said at Calais, and have not forgot it; I like to speak and lucubrate my fill;
I like the government (but that is not it); I like the freedom of the press and quill ;
I like the Habeas Corpus (when we've got it);
I like a sea-coal fire, when not too dear;
Have no objection to a pot of beer;
That is, I like two months of every year.
Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's debt, Our little riots just to show we are free men,
Our trilling bankruptcies in the Gazette,
All these I can forgive, and those forget,
Digression is a sin, that by degrees
And, therefore, may the reader too displease The gentle reader, who may wax unkind,
And, caring liule for the author's ease,
What should be easy reading! could I scale
Those pretty poems never known to fail, How quickly would I print (the world delighting )
A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale;
(A broken Dandy lately on my travels) And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on,
The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels,
And when I can't find that, I put a worse on,
Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils ;
Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do,
They had their little differences too,
In such affairs there probably are few
As bappy as unlawful love could make them; The gentleman was fond, the lady fair,
Theirchains so slight, 'twas not worth while to break them: The world bebeld them with indulgent air;
The pious only wish'd « the devil take them! »
Would love be! What would youth be without love! Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigour, truth,
Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above; But languishing with years it grows uncouth
One of few things experience don't improve, . Which is, perhaps, the reason why old sellors . Are always so preposterously jealous.