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Ah, no! she scorns the trappings of her Art ;
But, Ladies, say, must I alone unmask ?
First, how her little breast with triumph swells,
papers, And mimics father's gout, and mother's vapours ; Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances; Playful at church, and serious when she dances ; Tramples alike on customs and on toes, And whispers all she hears to all she knows; Terror of caps, and wigs, and sober notions ! A romp! that longest of perpetual motions !
-Till tamed and tortured into foreign graces,
Too soon a flirt, approach her and she flies!
Then comes that good old character, a Wife,
Last the gray Dowager, in ancient flounces,
The scourge and ridicule of Goth and Vandal,
, 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 control, 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 , Obscure or bright, tempestuous or serene, Still has your smile her trembling spirit fired! And can she act, with thoughts like these inspired ? Thus from her mind all artifice she flings, All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things! To you, unchecked, each genuine feeling flows; For all that life endears—to you she owes.
ON ... ASLEEP.
SLEEP on, and dream of Heaven awhile.
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 control,
FROM A GREEK EPIGRAM.
While on the cliff with calm delight she kneels,
Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare, And the fond boy springs back to nestle there.
There is a streamlet issuing from a rock.
There first I saw her ;
Dear is that valley to the murmuring bees ;