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Ball room votaries

or, Canterbury and its vicinity. Second Edition, with considerable alterations and additions [by Edward Quillinan]

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But where is B*ys, whose high elastic bound
Would dart so nimbly on this fairy ground;
Whose steps of light'ning with surprise we trac'd
Uniting so much harmony and taste?
Where's Laura Ch****n? she whose sloe-black eyes
Shot light more radiant than the summer skies;
Whose sweet, obliging, and good-humour'd mien
So much increas'd the beauty of the scene—
Alas! far other objects now employ
These late so lively votaries of joy;
And Pity weeps their tender bosoms torn
For relatives that now yon heaven adorn.
Poor Laura Ch****n! cruel was the shock—
Soft blossom riven from its parent stock!
Fair bud! disconsolate, and drench'd in woe,
I may not bid thy griefs forget to flow!
The tear a daughter sheds o'er parent's doom
Is the best ornament that decks his tomb,
The dew that makes his virtues round his gravestone bloom.

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Poor Laura Ch****n! sunk with real grief,
She and her sister strove to tend relief.
The streets, the libraries, the ball, the green,
In these the drooping pair were never seen;
In silent dread, in agoniz'd suspense,
They'd wait the hour that bore their father hence.
A parent pious, tender, good, and fond,
Well may the fair and filial maids despond;
Well may the tear adown their soft cheeks pace,
And the sweet smile that there exulted chase.
There stands the man, of keen expressive air,
The soul of genius firmly seated there,
Whom to have nam'd my friend, I would have thought
The kindest favour Fortune lately brought;
If it had been her will for me to bend
That cynic genius to a social friend.
Those features, pale with literary toil,
Have hung assiduous o'er the midnight oil.
Learning for him unlock'd his splendid store,
And Education gave him all her lore,
Gave him, though yet in life's just ripen'd prime,
By various ways the steep of fame to climb:

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So that e'en stern reviewers can't resist
Th'Historian, Critic, moral Essayist.
But wherefore thus should I, the humblest bard,
Proclaim what all have done, the praise of C**d?
Upon his arm reclines his graceful wife,
A proper partner for his studious life;
Whose mind, enrich'd with talent and with taste,
With virtue strengthen'd, and with softness grac'd,
Mingles its lustre with his stronger light,
As thus the Pleiades their beams unite.