A _déjeûner_’s a charming thing } In summer, for though poets sing } Of thy enchantments, vernal Spring, } Alas! we of them little know, Save what Arcadian writers shew. They never told of north-east winds Whirling the dust until it blinds— Of a bright sun, whose beams can freeze— Of airs, whose keenness makes us sneeze— Of dews, vouchsafed in storms of rain, Until we want the Ark again— Of agues, fevers, and sore throats, Of fur-lined mantles and great-coats; Yet thus—thy old enchantments undone— O Spring! thou meet’st mankind in London! Yet strange to tell, though year by year The same chill spectre doth appear, Instead of that young nymph, who still is By rhymesters crowned with daffodillies, Whom we remember from our cradles, Described in every poet’s fables— How wild their words—how warm their praise— And ours what folly still to raise Our expectations towards that Spring, Which not even May itself doth bring. Peace, saucy minstrel!—nor forget How Summer sometimes pays the debt With days, like angel-visits seen Most bright—but “few and far between.” And sure it is, such visits rare Make us esteem them doubly fair, And Nature’s brightest to their eyes Who see her, sun-lit, with surprise; ’Tis pleasant through umbrageous trees To watch the groups with careless ease, That far and near, and fair and free, Wind like the nymphs of Arcady; White flowing robes become them well, And each at distance seems a belle, And tripping from some green retreat } Of clustered leaves, and garlands sweet, } Is credited with fairy feet. } And the unusual exercise Tints up the cheeks, and lights the eyes; What wonder, then, that lover’s tale Makes eloquent each bower and dale? That flattery’s soft and silver tongue Then smoothest speaks from old and young— And all are bent on charming hours, ’Mid such a paradise of flowers? As Mary, at her mother’s side, Walked gracefully, her suitors vied Which could extol her charms the most, Or of her slight acquaintance boast; Nay some, to whom she scarce had bowed, Of her sweet temper spoke aloud, And charming sayings had to tell Of her they called _their_ favourite belle. Her mother was, the men all said, A damask rose of royal red, And Mary was the bud half blown, That each one wished to call his own, And wear on his vain-glorious breast, To raise the envy of the rest. [Illustration: _The Ball_ _AS MARY, AT HER MOTHER’S SIDE, WALKED GRACEFULLY, HER SUITORS VIED._ ]