Short time hath she to muse and dream Of grove-crowned hill, and placid stream, For Mary is a child no more, And a gay host assails her door, With smiles, and becks, and modish airs, _Marchandes des modes_—and _Couturières_; At first she shrinks back half-ashamed, As loud their splendid wares are named. One tells how rulers of the _monde_ Wear just such satin, just such blonde; Another, as a peacock vain, Spreads out a _corsage_ and a train: “_Pour une miladi, aussi belle, Ça irait vraiment à merveille._” A third brings wreaths so fair to see, The King of Judah’s[1] cunning bee From flower to flower had boldly flown, And deemed them surely Nature’s own. All praised her _tournure_, and her grace, Till modest blushes dyed her face; Then each, demanding “_pardon_,” thought “That if _sa seigneurie_ had bought A few more _nouveautés_ ’twere wise, Ere they were shewn to other eyes— As now _les grandes dames_ wished to buy More than their _artistes_ could supply; For then, just then,—’twas sad, but true,— Even if they wrought the whole night through, Full many a lady needs must wait, Who’d ordered robes for the next fête.” The prologue’s done—the father sighs, As all those glittering gauds he eyes; And, while his spouse makes haste to tell Their cheapness is a miracle, He thinks of his estates at nurse, And in his pocket grasps his purse. And now to Mary’s wondering eyes, Behold the magic curtain rise; O day of joy, and agitation, Comes on her courtly presentation! Gems deck her brow, and waving plumes, Her train came forth from Genoa’s looms, And rich transparent folds of lace Fall from her head with airy grace; To Nature, Art has lent its aid, And proud she looks, though half afraid. No longer now the sportive child, With buoyant step, and spirits wild, Who chased the winged flowers of air, Or wandered through her bright parterre; Schooled to a stately dignity She moves, while crowds press on to see A form from Beauty’s finest mould, Which all of purple, and of gold, Of nodding plume, and diamond bright, Are but too poor to deck aright! They little dream who see her glide On her new path with mien of pride, How in her secret, throbbing breast, A trembling, timid heart doth rest! Her mother leads her through the throng, Who whisper as she moves along, Some, with a haggard envious air, Whose ancient faces round her stare, “Wonder the men so weak can be, So undiscerning as to see One single charm or winning grace In such a blushing baby face.” In vain they cavil—gallants gay From older beauties shrink away; Eye the fair girl with flattering gaze, And whisper, to be heard, her praise; Their words, “How charming!” meet her ear, A spell to dissipate her fear. More calm she nears the throne at last— A step—the dreaded ordeal’s past! [Illustration: _The Presentation_ _SHE BENDS BEFORE OUR GENTLE QUEEN THE YOUNGEST, FAIREST, EVER SEEN_ ]