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 Mumma, for fear there's harm in What you, she, it, or they, may be about, The Nursery still lisps out in all they utterBesides, they always smell of bread and butter.

XL.

But « Cavalier Servente» is the phrase

་་

Used in politest circles to express This supernumerary slave, who stays 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; Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call, And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl.

XLI.

With all its sinful doings, I must say,
That Italy's a pleasant place to me,

Who love to see the Sun shine every day,

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, When the first act is ended by a dance In vineyards copied from the south of France.

XLII.

I like on Autumn evenings to ride out,

be sure

Without being forc'd to bid my groom
My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about,
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 'twould 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 twinkling weak as
A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow,
But with all Heaven t'himself; that 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.
XLIV.

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth,
And sounds as if it should be writ on satin,
With syllables which breathe of the sweet South,
And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in,

That not a single accent seems uncouth,

Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, Which we're oblig'd to hiss, and spit, and sputter all.

XLV.

I like the women too (forgive my folly),

From the rich peasant-cheek of ruddy bronze, And large black eyes that flash on you a volley 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,
While yet Canova 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 parliamentary debate,

Particularly when 'tis not too late;

XLVIII.

I like the taxes, when they're not too many;
I like a sea-coal fire, when not too dear;
I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any;
Have no objection to a pot of beer;
I like the weather, when it is not rainy,

That is, I like two months of every year.
And so God save the Regent, Church, and King!
Which means that I like all and every thing.

XLIX.

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen,

Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's debt,
Our little riots just to show we are free men,
Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette,
Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women,

All these I can forgive, and those forget,
And greatly venerate our recent glories,
And wish they were not owing to the Tories.

L.

But to my tale of Laura,-for. I find
Digression is a sin, that by degrees
Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind,

And, therefore, may the reader too displease-
The gentle reader, who may wax unkind,
And, caring little for the author's ease,
Insist on knowing what he means: a hard
And hapless situation for a bard.

LI.

O that I had the art of easy writing

What should be easy reading! could I scale Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing

Those pretty poems never known to fail, How quickly would I print (the world delighting) A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale;

And sell you, mix'd with Western sentimentalism, Some samples of the finest Orientalism.

LII.

But I am but a nameless sort of

person,

(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; I've half a mind to tumble down to prose, But verse is more in fashion-so here gocs.

LIII.

The count and Laura made their new arrangement,
Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do,
For half a dozen years without estrangement;
They had their little differences too,

Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant :
In such affairs there probably are few
Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble,

From sinners of high station to the rabble.

LIV.

But on the whole, they were a happy pair,
As happy as unlawful love could make them;

The gentleman was fond, the lady fair,

Their chains so slight, 'twas not worth while to break ther:

The world beheld them with indulgent air;

The pious only wish'd « the devil take them! »

He took them not; he very often waits,

And leaves old sinners to be

LV.

young

ones' baits.

But they were young: Oh! what without our youth
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 fellows
Are always so preposterously jealous.