XXXIX.

"Tis true, your budding Miss is very charming,
But shy and awkward at first coming out,
So much alarm'd, 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,

The Nursery still lisps out in all they utter-
Besides, 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.
He 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,
Without being forced to bid my groom be sure
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 wagons 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 forced to borrow That sort of farthing candle light which glimmers Where reeking London's smoky caldron 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 obliged 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! didst thou not inspire
Raphael,(4) 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 ?*

* NOTE.

(In talking thus, the writer, more especially
Of women, would be understood to say,
He speaks as a spectator, not officially,
And always, reader, in a modest way;
Perhaps, too, in no very great degree shall he

Appear to have offended in this lay,

Since, as all know, without the sex, our sonnets

Would seem unfinish'd like their untrimm'd bonnets.)

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 seacoal 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.

Oh 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

a mind to tumble down to prose,

ore in fashion-so here goes.