He sneers,—how my Alice would scold him!—
At the bliss of a sigh or a tear;
He laughed—only think!—when I told him
How we cried o’er Trevelyan last year;
I vow I was quite in a passion;
I broke all the sticks of my fan;
But sentiment’s quite out of fashion,
It seems, in a talented man.
Lady Bab, who is terribly moral,
Has told me that Tully is vain,
And apt—which is silly—to quarrel,
And fond—which is sad—of champagne.
I listened, and doubted, dear Alice,
For I saw, when my Lady began,
It was only the Dowager’s malice;—
She does hate a talented man!
He’s hideous, I own it. But fame, love,
Is all that these eyes can adore;
He’s lame,—but Lord Byron was lame, love,
And dumpy,—but so is Tom Moore.
Then his voice,—such a voice! my sweet creature,
It’s like your Aunt Lucy’s toucan:
But oh! what’s a tone or a feature,
When once one’s a talented man?
My mother, you know, all the season,
Has talked of Sir Geoffrey’s estate;
And truly, to do the fool reason,
He has been less horrid of late.
But to-day, when we drive in the carriage,
I’ll tell her to lay down her plan;—
If ever I venture on marriage,
It must be a talented man!
P.S.—I have found on reflection,
One fault in my friend,—entre nous;
Without it, he’d just be perfection;—
Poor fellow, he has not a sou!
And so, when he comes in September
To shoot with my uncle, Sir Dan,
I’ve promised mamma to remember
He’s only a talented man!
PLUS DE POLITIQUE.
(1832.)
No politics!—I cannot bear
To tell our ancient fame;
No politics!—I do not dare
To paint our present shame!
What we have been, what we must be,
Let other minstrels say;
It is too dark a theme for me:
No politics to-day!
I loved to see the captive’s chain
By British hands burst through;
I loved to sing the fields of Spain,
The war of Waterloo:
But now the Russians’ greedy swords
Are edged with English pay;
We help, we hire, the robber hordes:
No politics to-day!
I used to look on many a home
Of industry and art;
I gazed on pleasure’s gorgeous dome,
On labour’s busy mart:
From Derby’s rows, from Bristol’s fires,
I turn with tears away;
I can’t admire what Brougham admires:
No politics to-day!
Let’s talk of Coplestone and prayers,
Of Kitchener and pies,
Of Lady Sophonisba’s airs,
Of Lady Susan’s eyes;
Let’s talk of Mr. Attwood’s cause,
Of Mr. Pococks’s play,
Of fiddles, bubbles, rattles, straws!
No politics to-day!