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And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust
His other arm forth—Wonder upon wonders It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust,
Which beat as if there was a warm heart under. He found, as people on most trials must,
That he had made at first a silly blunder, And that in his confusion he had caught Only the wall, instead of what he sought.
The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul
As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood: A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole
Forth into something much like flesh and blood; Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl,
And they reveal’d—alas ! that e'er they should ! In full, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk, The phantom of her frolic Grace—Fitz-Fulke
UThe trifles which follow escaped the Editor's notice, when arranging the materials of Volumes IX. and XII.]
Adieu, ye joys of La Valettel
Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat!
Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd
Adieu, ye mansions where—I’ve ventured!
Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs
(How surely he who mounts you swears')
Adieu, ye merchants often failing!
Adieu, thou mob for ever railing !
Adieu, ye packets—without letters!
Adieu, ye fools—who ape your betters!
Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine,
That gave me fever, and the spleen
Adieu that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs,
Adieu his Excellency's dancers!
Adieu to Peter—whom no fault's in,
But could not teach a colonel waltzing;
Adieu, ye females fraught with graces !
Adieu red coats, and redder faces !
Adieu the supercilious air
Of all that strut “en militaire l’”
I go—but God knows when, or why,
To smoky towns and cloudy sky,
To things (the honest truth to say)
As bad—but in a different way.—
Farewell to these, but not adieu,
Triumphant sons of truest blue !
While either Adriatic shore,
And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more,
And nightly smiles, and daily dinners,
Proclaim you war and women's winners.
Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is,
And take my rhyme—because ’tis “gratis.”
And now I've got to Mrs. Fraser,
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her—
And were I vain enough to think
My praise was worth this drop of ink,
A line—or two—were no hard matter,
As here, indeed, I need not flatter:
But she must be content to shine
In better praises than in mine,
With lively air, and open heart.
And fashion’s ease, without its art ;
Her hours can gaily glide along,
Nor ask the aid of idle song.—
And now, O Malta 1 since thou’st got us,
Thou little military hothouse !
I'll not offend with words uncivil,
And wish thee rudely at the Devil,
But only stare from out my casement,
And ask, for what is such a place meant?
Then, in my solitary nook.
Return to scribbling, or a book,
Or take my physic while I’m able
(Two spoonfuls hourly by the label),
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,
And bless the gods—I’ve got a fever !
UNHAPPY DIves! in an evil hour
'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds accurst !
Once Fortune's minion, now thou feel'st her power;
Wrath's viol on thy lofty head hath burst.
In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first,
How wondrous bright thy blooming morn arose!
But thou wert smitten with th' unhallow'd thirst
Of Crime un-named, and thy sad noon must close
In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes.
AEGLE, beauty and poet, has two little crimes; She makes her own face, and does not make her rhymes.