Her foot—it was so wondrous small,été So thin, so round, so slim, so neat, The buckle fairly hid it all, And seemed to sink it with the weight.
And just above the spangled shoe, Where many an eye did often glance, Sweetly retiring from the view, And seen by stealth, and seen by chance;
Two slender ankles peeping out, Stood like Love’s heralds, to declare, That all within the petticoat Was firm and full, and “round, and fair.”
And then she dances—better far Than heart can think, or tongue can tell, Not Heinel, Banti, or Guimar, E’er moved so graceful and so well.
So easy glide her beauteous limbs, True as the echo to the sound, She seems, as through the dance she skims, To tread on air, and scorn the ground.
And there is lightning in her eye, One glance alone might well inspire The clay-cold breast of Apathy, Or bid the frozen heart catch fire.
And zephyr on her lovely lips Has spread his choicest, sweetest roses, And there his heavenly nectar sips, And there in breathing sweet reposes.
And there’s such music when she speaks, You may believe me when I tell ye, I’d rather hear her than the squeaks Or far famed squalls of Gabrielli.
And sparkling wit and steady sense, In that fair form with beauty vie, But tinged with virgin diffidence, And the soft blush of modesty.
Had I the treasures of the world, All the sun views or the seas borrow (Else may I to the devil be hurled), I’d lay them at her feet to-morrow.
But as we Bards reap only Bays, Nor much of that, though nought grows on it, I’ll beat my brains to sound her praise, And hammer them into a sonnet.
And if she deign one charming smile The blest reward of all my labours, I’ll never grudge my pains or toil, But pity the dull squires, my neighbours. _George Ellis._
TOO late I stayed, forgive the crime,— Unheeded flew the hours; How noiseless falls the foot of Time That only treads on flowers!
What eye with clear account remarks The ebbing of his glass, When all its sands are diamond sparks, That dazzle as they pass?
Ah! who to sober measurement Time’s happy swiftness brings, When birds of paradise have lent Their plumage for his wings? _Hon. William R. Spencer._
WHILE all to this auspicious day Well pleased their heartfelt homage pay And sweetly smile and softly say A hundred civic speeches; My Muse shall strike her tuneful strings, Nor scorn the gift her duty brings, Tho’ humble be the theme she sings,— A pair of shooting breeches.