Kind were the Fates: it oft befell Lord Squander met our youthful belle, And often to her side he drew, And tender adoration threw Into his eyes—that she might guess, The love it bored him to confess. She heeded not those loving eyes, Nor once remarked his frequent sighs; Or if she thought of him again, ’Twas but to vote him stupid, vain! A month went by—no progress made! And duns most clamorous to be paid! Urged by his pressing want of cash Our Celadon became more rash, And to explain his purpose better, Bestirred himself, and wrote a letter. A letter such as, well I ween, Few ladies’ eyes have ever seen Self-flatteries laid on so thick; But then the patient was so sick With debt—and with his love intense Was mingled such a confidence; Something like this the letter said, “You, lovely maid, I mean to wed— You’re far too charming, all agree To mate with any one, save me. To spare your blushes, I would rather Arrange the needful with your father: This done—though half the world may wonder, I’ll prove myself your faithful Squander!” Signed—sealed—the letter was despatched: The writer yawned, “At last I’m matched!” No fears had he—in half an hour His homage entered Mary’s bower, A place unmeet for words of folly; They found her thoughtful—melancholy. ’Twas yet unopened—and a hue Of crimson to her soft cheek flew, By Love’s own instinct half-deceived, She paused, she trembled, and believed The thing she hoped—she broke the seal, Sure that the letter must reveal Lord Deloraine’s love, which though full well She knew, she longed to have him tell. But angry as Idalia’s Queen, If, bent on journey, she had seen Her doves towards haunts forbidden wander, When she beheld the name of Squander She stood one instant lost in rage, Then cast away th’ audacious page; She scarcely could the insult bear, That such a brainless fop should dare Address her thus—then once again Thought wistfully of Deloraine. Struggling with shame she scarce could smother, She gave the letter to her mother; The Lady Percy spared her ire: “What! that known _roué_?—_He_ aspire To win my child, whom best of men Might scarce deserve? Be quick! a pen! I’ll write a proper answer now!” And, ere the flush passed from her brow, A proud rejection sent to Squander, Set that brave youth agape with wonder; And, while he gapes, the ghosts of bets, Dishonoured bills, rapacious debts, In a long line before him come, That stretches out “till crack of doom:” “Well, there’s no choice! and I _must_ pity Some golden Venus of the City!”