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Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 130.djvu/202

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At ten o'clock your maid awakes you;
You breakfast when she's done your hair;
At twelve the groom arrives and takes you
In Rotten Row to breathe the air.
From twelve to one you ride with vigor;
Your horse how gracefully you sit;
Your habit, too, shows off your figure,
As all your cavaliers admit.
One other habit I could mention —
I hope your feelings won't be hurt,
But you receive so much attention,
I sometimes fancy you're a flirt.
Of course you're not annoyed, I merely would indite
Your life as you lead it by day and night.


At two you've lunch; at three it's over,
And visitors in shoals arrive;
Admirers many, perhaps a lover —
Your next event is tea at five.
At six o'clock you go out driving
From Grosvenor to Albert Gate,
To occupy yourself contriving
Till dinner time comes round at eight.
Each hour as now the night advances
Some fresh attraction with it brings;
A concert followed by some dances —
The opera, if Patti sings.


At twelve you waltz; at one you've leisure
To try some chicken and champagne;
At two you do yourself the pleasure
Of starting off to waltz again.
At three your partners hate each other —
You scarcely know which loves you best;
Emotion you have none to smother,
But lightly with them all you jest.
At four your chaperon gives warning
That it is really time to go;
You wish good night, and say next morning
At twelve you'll meet them in the Row.


My darling, you're so very pretty,
I've often thought, upon my life,
That it would be a downright pity
To look upon you as a wife.
I don't think your ideas of marriage
With those of many would accord,
The opera, horses, and a carriage,
Are things so few men can afford.
And then you need so much devotion —
To furnish it who would not try?
But each would find it, I've a notion,
Too much for one man to supply.
Of course you're not annoyed, I merely would indite
Your life as you lead it by day and night.

H. Sutherland Edwards.
Macmillan's Magazine.


Sooth 'twere a pleasant life to lead,
With nothing in the world to do,
But just to blow a shepherd's reed
The silent season through,
And just to drive a flock to feed —
Sheep, quiet, fond, and few!

Pleasant to breathe beside a brook,
And count the bubbles — love-worlds — there;
To muse upon some minstrel's book,
Or watch the haunted air;
To slumber in some leafy nook —
Or, idle anywhere.

And then a draught of nature's wine,
A meal of summer's daintiest fruit;
To take the air with forms divine;
Clouds, silvery, cool, and mute;
Descending, if the night be fine,
In a star-parachute.

Give me to live with love alone,
And let the world go dine and dress:
For love hath lowly haunts — a stone
Holds something meant to bless.
If life's a flower, I choose my own —
'Tis "Love in Idleness"!

Laman Blanchard.



Her little face is white with woe,
Her downcast eyes are wet;
She had not meant to grieve him so,
At least, — at least, — not yet;
It was so pleasant to be wooed,
So hateful to be won, —
Ah! why should many a merry mood
End in so drear a one!

She draws the curtain back, and peers
Into the world beyond;
The garden gleams in flowery tiers,
The fish leap in the pond;
Behind there is a misty hill, —
How grey it all has grown!
Perhaps it was her father's will,
Perhaps it is her own.

He turns aside, — he pleads no more,
But goes with drooping head;
A man is often wounded sore,
Who dons a coat of red.
And so he sadly rides away,
Slowly o'er hill and plain;
But, let us hope, some other day
He will ride back again!


June I