To all she was polite without parade; To some she show’d attention of that kind Which flatters, but is flattery convey’d In such a sort as cannot leave behind A trace unworthy either wife or maid;— A gentle, genial courtesy of mind, To those who were, or pass’d for meritorious, Just to console sad glory for being glorious; Which is in all respects, save now and then, A dull and desolate appendage. Gaze Upon the shades of those distinguish’d men Who were or are the puppet-shows of praise, The praise of persecution; gaze again On the most favour’d; and amidst the blaze Of sunset halos o’er the laurel-brow’d, What can ye recognise?—a gilded cloud. There also was of course in Adeline That calm patrician polish in the address, Which ne’er can pass the equinoctial line Of any thing which nature would express; Just as a mandarin finds nothing fine,— At least his manner suffers not to guess That any thing he views can greatly please. Perhaps we have borrow’d this from the Chinese— Perhaps from Horace: his ‘Nil admirari’ Was what he call’d the ‘Art of Happiness;’ An art on which the artists greatly vary, And have not yet attain’d to much success. However, ’tis expedient to be wary: Indifference certes don’t produce distress; And rash enthusiasm in good society Were nothing but a moral inebriety. But Adeline was not indifferent: for (Now for a common-place!) beneath the snow, As a volcano holds the lava more Within—et caetera. Shall I go on?—No! I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor, So let the often-used volcano go. Poor thing! How frequently, by me and others, It hath been stirr’d up till its smoke quite smothers! I’ll have another figure in a trice:— What say you to a bottle of champagne? Frozen into a very vinous ice, Which leaves few drops of that immortal rain, Yet in the very centre, past all price, About a liquid glassful will remain; And this is stronger than the strongest grape Could e’er express in its expanded shape: ’Tis the whole spirit brought to a quintessence; And thus the chilliest aspects may concentre A hidden nectar under a cold presence. And such are many—though I only meant her From whom I now deduce these moral lessons, On which the Muse has always sought to enter. And your cold people are beyond all price, When once you have broken their confounded ice. But after all they are a North-West Passage Unto the glowing India of the soul; And as the good ships sent upon that message Have not exactly ascertain’d the Pole (Though Parry’s efforts look a lucky presage), Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal; For if the Pole ’s not open, but all frost (A chance still), ’tis a voyage or vessel lost.