Dowagers, stiff in black brocades,
Worry the waiters--sweep their trays:
How they scowl at the foolish men
Basking in Beauty's blaze!
Saunters a poet, munching cake:
"Very distinguished." "Did you buy
Your lace at Beck's?" "Why, how he laughs!"
"But his verses make one cry!"
Idle poet, a word with you:
You sing too much of love's sweet wrong,
Of rosy cheeks, and purple wine:
Give us a loftier song.
The coachmen stamp upon the steps;
Our hostess looks towards the door;
Our host twists round his limp cravat,
Pronouncing the thing a bore!
Our skeletons will be stirring soon;
Something already touches me:
Off, till I drain one bottle more!
_Vive la compagnie!_
THE RACE.
The guests were gathered in the ancient park
Of my Lord Wynne, and he was now their mark
For wit and gossip--quite the usual way,
Where one bestows, and no one need repay.
"A stumbling-block his pride; his heart's in strife
Between two women, which to choose for wife.
He's always hovering round that lovely girl,
His lawyer's daughter, who will never furl
_Her_ flag of pride: she rivals Gilbert there.
Now watch their meeting; none more bravely wear
Their beauty, recognize a woman's own,
Than Clara Mercome. Gilbert Wynne has sown
His wild oats for her sake; yet he delays,
And with my Lady Bond divides his days.
Who bets on beauty, hedges in on age;
Which tries the flight to perch in Lord Wynne's cage?
Will Lady Bond or Clara be the queen?
For Lady Bond is certain of her lien.
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