Let Folly breathe one burning stain.
Thy mind—so rich in classic lore,—
Thy heart, from worldly taint so free;
Ah! let me not the hours deplore,
Which might be all embalmed by thee.
At last the “will-o’-the-wisp” was called upon for a recitation, and after laughing, and blushing, and scolding, and making as “much ado about nothing” as the Lady Heron did about singing “Young Lochinvar,” she gave, in her own peculiar way, the following song:—
They call me a careless coquette;
That often, too often, I change; they chide
Because every being on earth I’ve met,
Of the glorious mark in my hope falls wide.