Gentlewoman of the Old School HE lived in Georgian era too. Most women then, if bards be true, Succumbed to Routs and Cards, or grew Devout and acid. But hers was neither fate. She came Of good west-country folk, whose fame Has faded now. For us her name Is "Madam Placid." Patience or Prudence,-what you will, Some prefix faintly fragrant still As those old musky scents that fill Our grandams' pillows And for her youthful portrait take Some long-waist child of Hudson's make, Stiffly at ease beside a lake With swans and willows. I keep her later semblance placed Beside my desk,-'tis lawned and laced, In shadowy sanguine stipple traced By Bartolozzi; A placid face, in which surprise Is seldom seen, but yet there lies For her e'en Time grew debonair. He, finding cheeks unclaimed of care, With late-delayed faint roses there, And lingering dimples, Had spared to touch the fair old face, And only kissed with Vauxhall grace The soft white hand that stroked her lace, Or smoothed her wimples. So left her beautiful. Her age Was comely as her youth was sage, And yet she once had been the rage ;— It hath been hinted, Indeed, affirmed by one or two, Some spark at Bath (as sparks will do) Inscribed a song to "Lovely Prue," Which Urban printed. I know she thought; I know she felt; Perchance could sum, I doubt she spelt; She knew as little of the Celt As of the Saxon; I know she played and sang, for yet We keep the tumble-down spinet To which she quavered ballads set By Arne or Jackson. Her tastes were not refined as ours; She liked plain food and homely flowers, Refused to paint, kept early hours, Went clad demurely ; Her art was sampler-work design, Fireworks for her were "vastly fine," Her luxury was elder-wine, She loved that "purely." |