 | Poetical Trifles |  |
14
------ RACES.
A BALLAD.
O George, I've been, I'll tell you where,
But first prepare yourself for raptures;
To paint this charming, heavenly fair,
And paint her well, would ask whole chapters.
But first prepare yourself for raptures;
To paint this charming, heavenly fair,
And paint her well, would ask whole chapters.
Fine creatures I've view'd many a one,
With lovely shapes, and angel faces,
But I have seen them all out-done,
By this sweet Maid, at ------ Races.
With lovely shapes, and angel faces,
But I have seen them all out-done,
By this sweet Maid, at ------ Races.
Lords, Commoners, alike she rules,
Takes all who view her by surprise,
Makes e'en the wisest look like fools,
Nay more, makes fox-hunters look wise.
Takes all who view her by surprise,
Makes e'en the wisest look like fools,
Nay more, makes fox-hunters look wise.
15
Her shape—'tis elegance and ease,
Unspoil'd by art, or modern dress,
But gently tapering by degrees,
And finely, “beautifully less.”
Unspoil'd by art, or modern dress,
But gently tapering by degrees,
And finely, “beautifully less.”
Her foot—it was so wonderous small,
So thin, so round, so slim, so neat,
The buckle fairly hid it all,
And seem'd to sink it with the weight.
So thin, so round, so slim, so neat,
The buckle fairly hid it all,
And seem'd to sink it with the weight.
And just above the spangled shoe,
Where many an eye did often glance,
Sweetly retiring from the view,
And seen by stealth, and seen by chance;
Where many an eye did often glance,
Sweetly retiring from the view,
And seen by stealth, and seen by chance;
Two slender ankles peeping out,
Stood like Love's heralds, to declare
That all within the petticoat
Was firm, and full, “and round, and fair.”
Stood like Love's heralds, to declare
That all within the petticoat
Was firm, and full, “and round, and fair.”
And then she dances—better far
Than heart can think, or tongue can tell,
Not Heinel, Banti, or Guimar,
E'er mov'd so graceful, and so well.
Than heart can think, or tongue can tell,
Not Heinel, Banti, or Guimar,
E'er mov'd so graceful, and so well.
16
So easy glide her beauteous limbs,
True as the echo to the sound,
She seems, as through the dance she skims,
To tread on air, and scorn the ground.
True as the echo to the sound,
She seems, as through the dance she skims,
To tread on air, and scorn the ground.
And there is lightning in her eye,
One glance alone might well inspire
The clay-cold breast of Apathy,
Or bid the frozen heart catch fire.
One glance alone might well inspire
The clay-cold breast of Apathy,
Or bid the frozen heart catch fire.
And Zephyr on her lovely lips
Has spread his choicest, sweetest roses,
And there his heavenly nectar sips,
And there in breathing sweets reposes.
Has spread his choicest, sweetest roses,
And there his heavenly nectar sips,
And there in breathing sweets reposes.
And there's such musick when she speaks,
You may believe me, when I tell ye,
I'd rather hear her, than the squeaks
Or far-fam'd squalls of Gabrielli.
You may believe me, when I tell ye,
I'd rather hear her, than the squeaks
Or far-fam'd squalls of Gabrielli.
And sparkling wit, and steady sense,
In that fair form with beauty vie,
But ting'd with virgin diffidence,
And the soft blush of modesty.
In that fair form with beauty vie,
But ting'd with virgin diffidence,
And the soft blush of modesty.
17
Had I the treasures of the world,
All the sun views, or the seas borrow,
(Else may I to the devil be hurl'd)
I'd lay them at her feet to-morrow.
All the sun views, or the seas borrow,
(Else may I to the devil be hurl'd)
I'd lay them at her feet to-morrow.
But as we Bards reap only Bays,
Nor much of that, though nought grows on it,
I'll beat my brains to sound her praise,
And hammer them into a Sonnet.
Nor much of that, though nought grows on it,
I'll beat my brains to sound her praise,
And hammer them into a Sonnet.
And if she deign one charming smile,
The blest reward of all my labours,
I'll never grudge my pains, or toil,
But pity the dull 'Squires, my neighbours.
The blest reward of all my labours,
I'll never grudge my pains, or toil,
But pity the dull 'Squires, my neighbours.
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