Till all these splendid scenes in dimness fade,
Lost in the glory circling round her shade.
TO MRS. TUITE.
Elton Hall, Oct. 29, 1822.
I write from Lord Carysfort’s, where I am paying a long-promised visit, in which my love of home, and my various ties, have prevented me from indulging myself, during many years of hopes and intentions. Like some other hopes, its fulfilment has been deferred too late to be attended with the enjoyment which would formerly have accompanied its fruition, as I found Lord Carysfort in a wretched state of health, and recollect with surprise that the advanced and enfeebled person I behold, is one with whom I have danced in all the contagious gaiety of the ball-room, and whom I have seen dancing with the lovely, and then youthful, Queen of Prussia. He is, however, as agreeable as ever, when he does converse. His finely furnished mind, expanding in so many directions, and full of taste and feeling, is a continual feast. His very prejudices, which are numerous, and the mistaken opinions he forms in consequence of extreme sensibility, give a zest and novelty to his conversation. You are always doubtful what he will think or say—never absolutely on terra firma; you are sailing on a rapid river, always feel the motion of the boat, and are aware that the next reach may give you a prospect quite unexpected. Lady Carysfort loses nothing of the impression of sense and dignity in her first abord by a closer inspection. Her uniform kindness to me, is as a sister’s and mother’s mixed might be. It is pleasant to find an acquaintance merely incidental, thus ripen into a friendship of more than twenty years.
1822.—I am disposed to think the following is the recasting of a ballad in the Irish language. There are several Scotch variations of the same.
Who will shoe my little foot? who will glove my little hand?