She heard not words that quick flew by, The ready compliment—the sigh— Nor saw grave men, at Love who joke, Now prone to kneel before she spoke— Her heart, her eye, her ear were gone, She had but words, but thoughts for one. At length, at distance in the crowd, Deloraine she saw, and said aloud “Tis he!” “Pray who?” with placid tone Her mother asks—a blush hath flown To her clear cheek—she feels it burn, And redder roses mount in turn. But ere she could an answer frame A troop of ladies round her came; She stops—there hangs on Deloraine’s arm A graceful form; how many a charm Bewitching doth that maid array, And points the pang that will have way, As forced, alas! to pause and see, Her heart grew sick—she wished to be Apart from all that brilliant throng, Apart from smile, and jest, and song: The _fête_ so late all mirth and light, Hath lost its gladness to her sight; The women teaze, the men annoy, The giddy crowd can yield no joy; A tear (that would despite her rise) Sought to escape from her bright eyes, As past she saw Lord Deloraine glide With that fair lady at his side. O Jealousy! thy serpent fang Strikes through the heart its keenest pang; Thou changest Summer’s sunny air To Winter’s hue of dull despair; The young rose with its radiant bloom, For the wan flower that decks the tomb; And with thy cold insidious art Bidd’st Hope from warmest breast depart. How mused our maid, on every charm Of her who hung on Deloraine’s arm; One minute’s length had been that gaze, But oh! so fraught with wild amaze, A long life it had seemed to be To her excited phantasy. With care she scarcely knew to hide, That beauty how she magnified, Which every eye that both had known _Must_ find inferior to her own! That smile, how brightly did it shine, “Ah!” Mary thought, “what chance had mine?” Yet had some fairy made her pass That woman’s shrine—a looking-glass, Even she, all jealous, must have seen Which was of Beauty’s empire Queen: But on she wandered mute and slow— How tedious seemed the revel now! The smiling dandies how she hated, The tiresome chaperons how they prated! “Would it were done!” she sighs once more, “Was ever _fête_ so dull before?”