Scarce is the morning gray--before Postman and porter crowd the door; No premier has so dear a levee-- She finds the mail-bag half its trade; My God--the parcels are so heavy! And not a parcel carriage-paid! But then--the truth must be confessed-- They're all so charmingly addressed: Whate'er they cost, they well requite her-- "To Madame Blank, the famous writer!" Poor thing, she sleeps so soft! and yet 'Twere worth my life to spare her slumber; "Madame--from Jena--the Gazette-- The Berlin Journal--the last number!" Sudden she wakes; those eyes of blue (Sweet eyes!) fall straight--on the Review! I by her side--all undetected, While those cursed columns are inspected; Loud squall the children overhead, Still she reads on, till all is read: At last she lays that darling by, And asks--"What makes the baby cry?" Already now the toilet's care Claims from her couch the restless fair; The toilet's care!--the glass has won Just half a glance, and all is done! A snappish--pettish word or so Warns the poor maid 'tis time to go:-- Not at her toilet wait the Graces Uncombed Erynnys takes their places; So great a mind expands its scope Far from the mean details of--soap! Now roll the coach-wheels to the muster-- Now round my muse her votaries cluster; Spruce Abbe Millefleurs--Baron Herman-- The English Lord, who don't know German,-- But all uncommonly well read From matchless A to deathless Z! Sneaks in the corner, shy and small, A thing which men the husband call! While every fop with flattery fires her, Swears with what passion he admires her.-- "'Passion!' 'admire!' and still you're dumb?" Lord bless your soul, the worst's to come:-- I'm forced to bow, as I'm a sinner,-- And hope--the rogue will stay to dinner! But oh, at dinner!--there's the sting; I see my cellar on the wing! You know if Burgundy is dear?-- Mine once emerged three times a year;-- And now to wash these learned throttles, In dozens disappear the bottles; They well must drink who well do eat (I've sunk a capital on meat). Her immortality, I fear, a Death-blow will prove to my Madeira; It has given, alas! a mortal shock To that old friend--my Steinberg hock! [13] If Faust had really any hand In printing, I can understand The fate which legends more than hint;-- The devil take all hands that print! And what my thanks for all?--a pout-- Sour looks--deep sighs; but what about? About! O, that I well divine-- That such a pearl should fall to swine-- That such a literary ruby Should grace the finger of a booby!