THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM.

Her grandmother for many a year

Had fed the parish with her bounty; Her second cousin was a peer,

And Lord Lieutenant of the County.

But titles, and the three per cents.,

And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes, and rents, Oh what are they to love's sensations? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locksSuch wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses, He cares as little for the Stocks,

As Baron Rothschild for the Muses.

She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach,

Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading:

She botanized; I envied each

Young blossom in her boudoir fading:

THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM.

She warbled Handel; it was grand;

She made the Catalani jealous :

She touch'd the organ; I could stand

For hours and hours to blow the bellows.

She kept an album, too, at home,

Well fill'd with all an album's glories;

Paintings of butterflies, and Rome,

Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories;

Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,

Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter,

And autographs of Prince Leboo,

And recipes for elder-water.

And she was flatter'd, worshipp'd, bored;

Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted;

Her poodle dog was quite adored,

Her sayings were extremely quoted;

THE BELLE OF THE Ball-ROOM.

She laugh'd, and every heart was glad,

As if the taxes were abolish'd;

She frown'd, and every look was sad,

As if the Opera were demolish'd.

She smiled on many, just for fun,

I knew that there was nothing in it;

I was the first-the only one

Her heart had thought of for a minute.

I knew it, for she told me so,

In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand, -and oh! How sweetly all her notes were folded!

Our love was like most other loves;

A little glow, a little shiver,

A rose-bud, and a pair of gloves,

And "Fly not yet"-upon the river;

THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM.

Some jealousy of some one's heir,

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted,

A miniature, a lock of hair,

The usual vows,-and then we parted.

We parted; months and years roll'd by;

We met again four summers after :

Our parting was all sob and sigh;

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter:

For in my heart's most secret cell

There had been many other lodgers;

And she was not the ball-room's Belle,

But only-Mrs. Something Rogers!

9

A LETTER OF ADVICE.

From Miss Medora Trevilian, at Padua, to Miss Araminta Vavasour, in London.

YOU

tell me you're promised a lover,

My own Araminta, next week;

Why cannot my fancy discover

The hue of his coat and his cheek?

Alas! if he look like another,

A vicar, a banker, a beau,

Be deaf to your father and mother,

My own Araminta, say "No!"

Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion,

Taught us both how to sing and to speak,

And we loved one another with passion,

Before we had been there a week:

You gave me a ring for a token;

I wear it wherever I go;