Then comes that good old character, a Wife, With all the dear, distracting cares of life; A thousand cards a day at doors to leave, And, in return, a thousand cards receive; Last the grey Dowager, in antient flounces, Her tea she sweetens, as she sips, with scandal; Like her own birds that clamour from their cages; And shuffles round to bear her tale to all, Like some old Ruin, nodding to its fall!' Thus WOMAN makes her entrance and her exit; Not least an actress, when she least suspects it. Yet Nature oft peeps out and mars the plot, Each lesson lost, each poor pretence forgot; Full oft, with energy that scorns controul, At once lights up the features of the soul; Unlocks each thought chained down by coward Art, And to full day the latent passions start! -And she, whose first, best wish is your applause, Herself exemplifies the truth she draws. Born on the stage-thro' every shifting scene, Still has your smile her trembling spirit fired! All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things! To you, unchecked, each genuine feeling flows; For all that life endears-to you she owes. SLEEP on, and dream of Heaven awhile. Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes, And move, and breathe delicious sighs! Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks, She starts, she trembles, and she weeps! Her fair hands folded on her breast. -And now, how like a saint she sleeps! A seraph in the realms of rest! Sleep on secure! Above controul, Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee! And may the secret of thy soul Repose within its sanctuary! "TWAS Autumn; thro' Provence had ceased The vintage, and the vintage-feast. The sun had set behind the hill, The moon was up, and all was still, And from the Convent's neighbouring tower The clock had tolled the midnight hour, Her kerchief o'er her tresses thrown; A guilty thing and full of fears, Yet ah, how lovely in her tears! She starts, and what has caught her eye? What-but her shadow gliding by? She stops, she pants; with lips apart Then, thro' the scanty orchard stealing, She flies, nor casts a thought behind, But gives her terrors to the wind; Flies from her home, the humble sphere Of all her joys and sorrows here, Her father's house of mountain-stone, And by a mountain-vine o'ergrown. At such an hour in such a night, So calm, so clear, so heavenly bright, Who would have seen, and not confessed It looked as all within were blest? What will not woman, when she loves? Yet lost, alas, who can restore her? |