There are, metrically speaking, few finer couplets in English than the first of that second stanza. Looked at from another point of view, the mixture of the comic and the serious in the piece is remarkable enough; but not so remarkable, I think, as its extraordinary metrical accomplishment. There is not a note or a syllable wrong in the whole thing, but every sound and every cadence comes exactly where it ought to come, so as to be, in a delightful phrase of Southey's, "necessary and voluptuous and right." It is no wonder that when Praed had discovered such a medium he should have worked it freely. But he never impressed on it such a combination of majesty and grace as in this letter of Medora Trevilian. As far as the metre goes I think the eight-lined stanzas of this piece better suited to it than the twelve-lined ones of "Good Night to the Season" and the first "Letter from Teignmouth," but both are very delightful. Perhaps the first is the best known of all Praed's poems, and certainly some things in it, such as The ice of her ladyship's manners, The ice of his lordship's champagne, are among the most quoted. But this antithetical trick, of which Praed was so fond, is repeated a little often in it; and it seems to me to lack the freshness as well as the fire of the "Advice." On the other hand, the "Letter from Teignmouth" is the best thing that even Praed has ever done for combined grace and tenderness. You once could be pleased with our ballads-- To-day you have critical ears; You once could be charmed with our salads-- Alas! you've been dining with Peers; You trifled and flirted with many-- You've forgotten the when and the how; There was one you liked better than any-- Perhaps you've forgotten her now. But of those you remember most newly, Of those who delight or enthral, None love you a quarter so truly As some you will find at our Ball. They tell me you've many who flatter, Because of your wit and your song: They tell me--and what does it matter?-- You like to be praised by the throng: They tell me you're shadowed with laurel: They tell me you're loved by a Blue: They tell me you're sadly immoral-- Dear Clarence, that cannot be true! But to me, you are still what I found you, Before you grew clever and tall; And you'll think of the spell that once bound you; And you'll come--won't you come?--to our Ball! Is not that perfectly charming?