The belle of a seasonBlessington, Marguerite, Countess of
General
The belle of a season
Blessington, Marguerite, Countess of
English poetry -- 19th century
To rob the matrons of their slumber,
While they can scarcely courage gather
To shew them to a surly father
Too sure to swear—to sure to scoff—
“Five hundred pounds?—not one gone off?
Now truly, Madam, on my word,
This cursed expense is quite absurd!”
And while on sleepless beds they toss,
Scared by the thoughts of husbands cross,
The anxious chaperons fret and wonder
Why men bend brows of darkest thunder
Upon the adornments which, no doubt,
No well-born girl could do without;
And think some most malicious star
Takes pains their prospects bright to mar.
“Heavens! how my Lord will stamp and scold,
And hint that Dora looks so old!
And here’s another season closed,
Sir Harry—gone, and _not_ proposed!
I did my best—gave Sunday dinners,
Though strict Sir Andrew called us sinners!
I’m sure I caught three bad sore throats,
With water pic-nics made in boats:
Another year—and all but ruin!
What ever _can_ the men be doing?”
Now fathers on their banker’s book
With long and rueful visage look,
Sum the small balance, curse the town,
And, filled with sullen spleen, go down
To country-seats—to sleep, till Spring
Bids them again reluctant bring
Their wares, so long on hand, for sale,
And some—alas! grown _rather_ stale!
While thus the weeks went quickly o’er,
His cabriolet, each morning bore
Deloraine, to meet the maid, who grew
Dearer the more he saw, and knew
The varied treasures of her mind,
By culture formed, by taste refined:
He only waited just to know
If but the substance equalled show—
For beauty he but little rated,
Unless by spirit animated;
And Deloraine, wiser than his age,
Must pause before he dared engage
His faith to one but slightly known.
But all was right!—his wooed, his own,
Surpassed what fondest fancy dreamed
Of pure, and good—and now he deemed
The experiment had well been tried,
And longed to claim her for his bride!
But ere he spoke, and her fair hand
From her fond parents dared demand,
He longed to seek if in her heart
His humble image had a part;
At times depressed, at times elate,
He now would dare, and meet his fate.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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