I don't object to wealth or land And she will have the giving Of an extremely pretty hand, Some thousands, and a living. She makes silk purses, broiders stools, Sings sweetly, dances finely, Paints screens, subscribes to Sunday-schools, And sits a horse divinely. But to be linked for life to her!-- The desperate man who tried it, Might marry a barometer, And hang himself beside it! THE BELLE OF THE BALL. W. MACKWORTH PRAED. Years--years ago--ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise and witty; Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty; Years, years ago, while all my joys Were in my fowling-piece and filly: In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lilly. I saw her at a country ball; There when the sound of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall, Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that sets young hearts romancing: She was our queen, our rose, our star; And when she danced--oh, heaven, her dancing! Dark was her hair, her hand was white; Her voice was exquisitely tender, Her eyes were full of liquid light; I never saw a waist so slender; Her every look, her every smile, Shot right and left a score of arrows; I thought't was Venus from her isle, I wondered where she'd left her sparrows. She talk'd of politics or prayers; Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets; Of daggers or of dancing bears, Of battles, or the last new bonnets; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock, To me it matter'd not a tittle, If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmured Little. Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them for the Sunday Journal. My mother laughed; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling; My father frown'd; but how should gout Find any happiness in kneeling? She was the daughter of a dean, Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; She had one brother just thirteen. Whose color was extremely hectic; Her grandmother, for many a year, Had fed the parish with her bounty; Her second cousin was a peer, And lord-lieutenant of the county. But titles and the three per cents, And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes and rents, Oh! what are they to love's sensations? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses; He cares as little for the stocks, As Baron Rothschild for the muses. She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading; She botanized; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading; She warbled Handel; it was grand-- She made the Catalina jealous; She touch'd the organ; I could stand For hours and hours and blow the bellows.