The First of April | Page 6

threats or ruin'd fame.
'Twas thus the BELDAME counsel'd; nor in
vain
Did she pour forth th' admonitory strain.
The weeping Fair before the Altar stood,
In all the dignity of
Widowhood.
First, from her eyes she wip'd away the tears;
And
then the solemn offering prepares.

--Connubial love,--the Altar's
sacred tie,-- }
Pure thoughts, chaste words, and many a tender sigh }


Which issued from the breast of virtuous A----ry; }
With golden
prospects, and a future claim
To the fair glories of a titled name;
All
these, in order plac'd, bedeck the shrine.
--Ill-fated D---- for they once
were thine!
Of all this precious treasure nought remains,
But the sad
remnant of a Mother's pains.
Then spoke the Queen.--"Fair Dame, dispel your fears,
And stop the
fruitless current of your tears!
Tho' Friends may prove unkind, all are
not gone;
Still there remains the _virtuous H----ton_:
Nor shall the
wedded H---- faithless prove,
Or quite forget the proofs of _former
Love_.
Ne'er shall you more lament the name of Wife;
The
Widow's joys will crown your future life."
Next filly _V----rs_, who once had by heart
Each _golden rule_ her
_Mother_ could impart;
But since, escap'd from the Maternal School,

Soon learn'd to break through every _golden rule_,[c]
With her the
weeping, whining D---- came,
And the _repentant_ L----'s tasteless
Dame.
To these an idle, giggling Train succeed,
Of various figure
and as various breed--
Whose mingled faces I had never seen--

Eager to pay their duties to the Queen.
And now before the Shrine,
promiscuous, lie
The Morning Blame, the Evening Flattery;

Sonnets, and Sighs, and Garlands from the Grove,
With all the soft
Artillery of Love;
Lampoons and Ballads, Jealousies, Alarms,
And
all the shafts which blast a Rival's charms;
Volumes of false Reports
the Altar load,
Brought up from squint-eyed _Scandal_'s dark abode:

And having yielded their accustom'd sport,
Are duly register'd in
FOLLY'S COURT.
Now shoals of Damsels to the place repair,
To sacrifice their
reputations there;
While others, careful of their own good name,

Give to the gaping crowd a neighbour's fame.
FOLLY, well-pleas'd,
the varied heap survey'd
Of _Female Offerings_ before her laid,

And wav'd her wand:--The Altar disappears;

But strait, at her
command, another rears
Its _silver_ base, whose firm, compacted

mould
Beam'd with the splendor of contrasted gold;
And many a
beauty shew'd, with strength to bear
The _weighty_ tributes to be
offer'd there.
Before it stood a modest, blooming Peer,
Who bow'd with easy grace,
and offer'd there
Some fine-spun Verses which he never wrote,

Some worthy Speeches which he spoke by rote:
For thus I heard
surrounding tongues rehearse,
"H---- wrote the Speeches, H----
composed the Verse."
And soon amid the mingled heap there lay

The blasted wishes for _Hibernian_ sway.
And here he sigh'd, and, as
I thought, a tear
Rose in his sullen eye, but linger'd there;
When
FOLLY, pointing to the splendid show
Of _Star_ and _Ribbon_ that
bedeck'd the Beau,
"For shame, my Lord, she cried, your doubtings
cease!
With such a wish and such a power to please,
As you
possess--Oh think not of the strife
And labours of the Politician's life!

Let _heavy Carlo_ feel the toilsome fate
That doth on fruitless
Opposition wait!
Let _clumsy_ NORTH, unenvied, still preside

O'er Britain's welfare, and her Counsels guide!
Let _purblind_
GRANTHAM strive, in soothing strain,
To calm the fury of
revengeful SPAIN!
Let _gentle_ STORMONT threat intriguing
FRANCE!
You shine, my Lord, _unrival'd in the dance_.
'Tis yours,
with nimble step and graceful air,
In measur'd mazes, to delight the
Fair.
Of all the various arts, how few are known
To gain an
excellence in more than one.
What real praises then become your due!

For who can DRESS and DANCE so well as you!"
She ceas'd:--In
minuet step my Lord retired;
To higher _Entre-Chats_ he now aspir'd:

Then, capering as he went, he hasten'd home,
To plan with St----r
Triumphs yet to come.
Now hoary S---- near the Throne appears,
Bent with the follies of full
three-score years.
These, heap on heap, the solid Altar grace:
When
FOLLY, sighing, mourn'd his wrinkled face;
And thus in words of
consolation spoke:--
"Fear not, my aged Child, the impending stroke


Of loit'ring Fate, which soon may cut in twain }
Thy cable's
dwindled strength, and feeble chain, }
And set thy bark afloat upon
th' Eternal Main! }
Fear not; but still indulge thy wanton hours,
And
strew thy wint'ry path with vernal flowers.
How long thine hours may
last, I cannot say;
FOLLY ne'er sees beyond _the present day_.
And
should Old Time, with subtle art, delude
Thy feebled Age into
decrepitude;
Still on thy crutches sing, and dance, and play,
And
gild the close of Life's short Holiday!
No _second Childhood_ can
my S---- wear;
The _first_ yet boasts an incomplete career.
Amid
the duties of maturer age,
The playful Child was blended with the
Sage;
And e'en th' important labours of the State,
The secret
Councils, and the deep Debate,
Have oft been left unfinished, to
enjoy
Some childish pastime, or some fangled toy,
Then fear
not,--tho' thy years are almost past,
_My friendly Ray_ shall chear
you to the last."
Now on the Altar, reeling, W---- lays
The expectations of his early
days;
And talents which, improv'd by GRANVILLE'S care,

Promis'd a ripe and plenteous crop to bear
Of golden Virtues. But his
care was vain:
With these were mingled the accursed bane
Of noble
deeds, fell