Were I a gossip, I could tell Of other suitors to our Belle: One—Sir George Vapid, hearing praised Her wondrous beauty—half-amazed Out of his slumbers—felt the praise, Somewhat like love, a _penchant_ raise; Not in his heart, but in his brain, For he was artless, cold, and vain, And ne’er till doomsday had desired To win a beauty few admired. Had Hebe’s self come down to snare The experienced youth of proud May Fair, He’d but have owned _her_ goddess when A goddess owned her other men. And thus it is—the word t’ admire, Through Fashion’s circles runs like fire; Nine out of ten, my Muse believes, Thus pin their taste on others’ sleeves! And so, with no more sapient reason, He sought the Beauty of the Season. Needs it to tell how soon his wooing, Like my Lord Squander’s, went to ruin? The self-same pen—as proud, as rapid— His answer gave to Sir George Vapid. Great was his wonder, his dejection Gave birth for once to cool reflection: “There’s some one else, I clearly see, Will carry off this prodigy— I should have liked the gem to wear, And make my friends at Crockford’s stare!” Hail, Envy! thou their choicest bliss, Givest, by rebound, to fools like this! Now change the scene, for one more gay! At least, so Lords and Ladies say; The maiden’s chamber fades in air, And with its sparkle and its glare, And music’s ever-witching spell, The Opera wooes our youthful Belle. For many a wise and cogent reason, The Lady Percy had each season An opera box; yet, though no prude, Suspicious doubt would now intrude, Whether ’twas right her virgin treasure Should share that fascinating pleasure? She scarcely knows what she intends, And hints her scruples to her friends; But all, inured to play and _ballet_, With many a pleasantry did rally The fears which in the mother woke: “How very odd!—’twas quite a joke! Why, all young ladies, when presented, That harmless paradise frequented. What is it you can see alarming? Not the Cachoucha?—that’s _so_ charming!” “My daughters, though they sometimes flush,” Quoth one high dame, “did never blush— Not even in their earliest teens: I’ve got a box beneath the Queen’s.” Such sapient rhetoric laughed down all The reasons _Madame Mère_ could call For, or against; and, thus persuaded, Mary, she said, should do as they did— The glories of the opera see, And learn to _speak_ with ecstasy, As Grisi, like a summer bird, Poured forth the tones, while none who heard Had pity wherewithal to note How much the siren strained her throat.