Some twenty youths, with bows, demand To be presented—ask her hand For coming dances;—ask in vain— She dances not the night again. Her mother’s tactics only grant One partner to the _débutante_; She fears fatigue—she talks of heat, So Mary gladly keeps her seat. Again Lord Deloraine draws nigh, With softest words, and earnest eye, Her cheek with brightest roses blooms, Her eye a sparkling light illumes, As he (’tis music’s sweetest strain!) Murmurs the words—“We meet again!” Ne’er had he paid to any other Such court as to our Mary’s mother; By flatteries, which adroitly hit, He makes her feel herself a wit, And all the sprightly words she measures, Thankful receives as precious treasures; Some spell—he asks not how or why— Opens new vistas to his eye; For when mamma, with wisdom trite, Says, “Girls should not sit up all night,” And firmly will demand her carriage, The word recalls another “marriage!” Marriage!—to him!—few weeks had sped Since he had vowed he’d never wed Until that age when, _blasé_, cool, A man’s too old to play the fool!— O strong, strong man! one glance at Mary Had made his life’s whole purpose vary! What were the dreams, that sweet spring night, That floated o’er her slumbers light? So pure, so blithe, so blest were they, That Sleep had brighter hours than Day. Again within that festive scene, Where erst with Deloraine she had been, She stooped to hear his whispered praise, She shrunk back from his glowing gaze, Like touch of an enchanter’s wand She felt the farewell of his hand; And yet how timidly ’twas taken— He _touched_, where common friend had _shaken_! And then a sudden change comes o’er Her dream—the maiden roves once more With him amid the favourite shade Of well-known grove, and woodland glade, Shews him the flowers she loved to rear, Which he, by praising, makes more dear; Points out each cherished haunt—the view Of limpid stream and mountain blue; And feels, the while he fondly speaks, Her native breezes fan her cheeks. They plan—they talk of future schemes, } And now to kiss her hand he seems— } She wakens.... ’Twas the dream of dreams! } Of all our _fêtes_, the wise ones say, There’s nothing like a _déjeûner_, In gardens rife with vernal bloom, That to the air exhales perfume; Where down through many a rich _bosquet_ Blithe Music’s voice is heard to stray, And women with the bright flowers vie Which shall the most enchant the eye. The same soft tints of lily, rose, Do many a cheek and leaf disclose, And both so radiant in their bloom; Alike their beauty and their doom, For the fair pride of home and lea, Soon fades and dies—Ah! wo is me! That flowers must droop, and fair cheeks wither, When Death and Winter cry “Come hither!” Why should not Beauty wear more slowly?— A truce to thoughts so melancholy.