The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed :: :: University of Virginia Library

Julia, while London's fancied bliss
Bids you despise a life like this;
While Chiswick and its joys you leave,
For hopes that flatter to deceive;
You will not scornfully refuse,
(Though dull the theme, and weak the Muse,)
To look upon my line, and hear
What friendship sends to Beauty's ear.

Four miles from town, a neat abode
O'erlooks a rose-bush, and a road;
A paling, cleaned with constant care,
Surrounds ten yards of neat parterre,
Where dusty ivy strives to crawl
Five inches up the whitened wall.
The open window, thickly set
With myrtle and with mignonette,
Behind whose cultivated row
A brace of globes peep out for show,

The avenue, the burnished plate
That decks the would-be rustic gate,
Denote the fane where Fashion dwells,—
“Lyce's Academy for Belles.”

'Twas here, in earlier, happier days,
Retired from pleasure's weary maze,
You found, unknown to care or pain,
The peace you will not find again.
Here friendships, far too fond to last,
A bright but fleeting radiance cast
On every sport that mirth devised,
And every scene that childhood prized,
And every bliss that bids you yet
Recall those moments with regret.

Those friends have mingled in the strife
That fills the busy scene of life,
And pride and folly, cares and fears,
Look dark upon their future years;
But by their wrecks may Julia learn
Whither her fragile bark to turn,
And o'er the troubled sea of fate
Avoid the rocks they found too late.

You know Camilla: o'er the plain
She guides the fiery hunter's rein;

First in the chase she sounds the horn,
Trampling to earth the farmer's corn,
That hardly deigned to bend its head
Beneath her namesake's lighter tread.
With Bob the Squire, her polished lover,
She wields the gun, or beats the cover;
And then her steed!—why! every clown
Tells how she rubs Smolensko down,
And combs the mane, and cleans the hoof,
While wondering hostlers stand aloof.

At night, before the Christmas fire,
She plays backgammon with the squire;
Shares in his laugh, and in his liquor,
Mimics her father, and the vicar;
Swears at the grooms without a blush;
Dips in her ale the captured brush;
Until,—her father duly tired—
The parson's wig as duly fired—
The dogs all still—the squire asleep,
And dreaming of his usual leap,—
She leaves the dregs of white and red,
And lounges languidly to bed;
And still, in nightly visions borne,
She gallops o'er the rustic's corn;
Still wields the lash—still shakes the box,
Dreaming of “sixes”—and the fox.

And this is bliss!—the story runs,
Camilla never wept—save once:
Yes! once indeed Camilla cried—
'Twas when her dear Blue-stockings died.

Pretty Cordelia thinks she's ill:
She seeks her medicine at quadrille;—
With hope and fear and envy sick
She gazes on the dubious trick,
As if eternity were laid
Upon a diamond, or a spade.
And I have seen a transient pique
Wake o'er that soft and girlish cheek
A chilly and a feverish hue,
Blighting the soil where beauty grew,
And bidding hate and malice rove
In eyes that ought to beam with love.

Turn we to Fannia: she was fair
As the soft fleeting forms of air
Shaped by the fancy,—fitting theme
For youthful bard's enamoured dream
The neck, on whose transparent glow
The auburn ringlets sweetly flow,
The eye that swims in liquid fire,
The brow that frowns in playful ire,
All these, when Fannia's early youth
Looked lovely in its native truth,

Diffused a bright unconscious grace,
Almost divine, o'er form and face.

Her lip has lost its fragrant dew,
Her cheek has lost its rosy hue,
Her eye the glad enlivening rays
That glittered there in happier days,
Her heart the ignorance of woe
Which Fashion's votaries may not know.
The city's smoke—the noxious air—
The constant crowd—the torch's glare—
The morning sleep—the noonday call—
The late repast—the midnight ball,
Bid faith and beauty die, and taint
Her heart with fraud, her face with paint.

And what the boon, the prize enjoyed,
For fame defaced, and peace destroyed?
Why ask we this? with conscious grace
She criticises silk and lace;
Queen of the modes, she reigns alike
O'er sarsenet, bobbin, net, vandyke,
O'er rouge and ribbons, combs and curls,
Perfumes and patches, pins and pearls;
Feelings and faintings, songs and sighs,
Small-talk and scandal, love and lies.
Circled by beaux behold her sit,
While dandies tremble at her wit;

The captain hates “a woman's gab;”
“A devil!” cries the shy Cantab;
The young Etonian strives to fly
The glance of her sarcastic eye,
For well he knows she looks him o'er,
To stamp him “buck,” or dub him “bore.”

Such is her life—a life of waste,
A life of wretchedness—and taste;
And all the glory Fannia boasts,
And all the price that glory costs,
At once are reckoned up, in one—
One word of bliss and folly—Ton.

Not these the thoughts that could perplex
The fancies of our fickle sex,
When England's favourite, good Queen Bess,
Was queen alike o'er war and dress.
Then ladies gay played chesse—and ballads,
And learnt to dress their hair—and salads;
Sweets, and sweet looks, were studied then,
And both were pleasing to the men;
For cookery was allied to taste,
And girls were taught to blush—and baste,
Dishes were bright,—and so were eyes,
And lords made love,—and ladies, pies.
Then Valour won the wavering field
By dint of hauberk and of shield,

And Beauty won the wavering heart
By dint of pickle and of tart:
The minuet was the favourite dance;
Girls loved the needle, boys the lance;
And Cupid took his constant post
At dinner by the boiled and roast,
Or secretly was wont to lurk
In tournament or needlework.
Oh! 'twas a reign of all delights,
Of hot sirloins—and hot sir knights;
Feasting and fighting, hand in hand,
Fattened and glorified the land;
And noble chiefs had noble cheer,
And knights grew strong upon strong beer;
Honour and oxen both were nourished,
And chivalry—and pudding—flourished.

I'd rather see that magic face,
That look of love, that form of grace,
Circled by whalebone and by ruffs,
Intent on puddings and on puffs,—
I'd rather view thee thus, than see
A Fashionable rise in thee.
If life is dark, 'tis not for you
(If partial friendship's voice is true)
To cure its griefs and drown its cares
By leaping gates and murd'ring hares,

Nor to confine that feeling soul
To winning lovers—or the vole.

If these, and such pursuits, are thine,
Julia! thou art no friend of mine!
I love plain dress, I eat plain joints,
I cannot play ten-guinea points;
I make no study of a pin,
And hate a female whipper-in!