Who was it said Variety was Beauty Or Beauty was Variety?--no matter, To recollect his name is not my duty, It may have been Theocritus's hatter, For aught I know, my brains are in a batter, I'm older than I used to be by far, Yet, joking all aside, myself I flatter My faculties are lively as they are, And yet--let's see--who was that Philosophic Star?
I _can't_ think--never mind. But I maintain That Beauty _is_ Variety (and I Emphatically say the same again) Just now it doesn't matter how or why: If anybody wishes to deny That this is true--then--let him come and prove it, If anyone has doubt of it, I'll try-- I'll do my very utmost to remove it. If 'twere a lie most certainly I should reprove it.
It is when Autumn sweeps the frosty plain And tips the woods with flaming hues, that I Delight to pause and gaze and gaze again Where varied tints the landscape beautify; It is the smirking maiden's nut-brown eye, Fair skin all traversed by the tender blue, Her cherry cheeks and lips that make me sigh, Besides her snowy teeth--now don't they you? That's right, I knew that you'd agree, _of course_ they do.
Ah, what is that which makes the sunset dear? It is each varying tinge that stains the air, While ever-changing colours still appear, And fairy-flecks float forward calm and fair. But still our weary ladies lingered there, For Flo their fav'rite trio did propose, And Dora, as was usual, sang the air; The eve was still, the day began to close As on the gentle breeze the following words arose:
We are ever ever merry as we frolic in the ocean, As we dive beneath the waters to its gem-bestudded floor; And we dance within its grottoes with an ever-whirling motion, And we roll the little wavelets one by one upon the shore.
From beneath the leaves in caverns adamantine we are peeping, Now along the blazing pearl and ruby corridors we glide, And amongst the tall fantastic arches slily are we creeping, There within their dark, mysterious recesses do we hide.
We recline within the bowers of the ever-rolling billow, We repose upon its bosom with a calm and cool delight, While ecstacies enrapture on its tranquillizing pillow, And we raise a myriad voices to the canopy of Night.
Then up they started; 'twas already dim, Still 'twas but half an hour's walk at the most, Altho' they were not quite in walking trim, Fatigued by all their rambles on the coast; In clambering o'er the rocks no time they lost, Altho' their small bottines got somewhat wet, And their incautiousness some duckings cost, But over soaking hose they didn't fret, For, jumping slippery rocks, what could they hope to get?
