Fanny Part 9

But Fortune, like some others of her s.e.x, Delights in tantalizing and tormenting; One day we feed upon their smiles--the next Is spent in swearing, sorrowing, and repenting.

(If in the last four lines the author lies, He's always ready to apologize.)

CLVI.

Eve never walk'd in Paradise more pure Than on that morn when Satan play'd the devil With her and all her race. A love-sick wooer Ne'er ask'd a kinder maiden, or more civil, Than Cleopatra was to Antony The day she left him on the Ionian sea.

CLVII.

The serpent--loveliest in his coiled ring, With eye that charms, and beauty that outvies The tints of the rainbow--bears upon his sting The deadliest venom. Ere the dolphin dies Its hues are brightest. Like an infant's breath Are tropic winds, before the voice of death

CLVIII.

Is heard upon the waters, summoning The midnight earthquake from its sleep of years To do its task of wo. The clouds that fling The lightning, brighten ere the bolt appears; The pantings of the warrior's heart are proud Upon that battle morn whose night-dews wet his shroud;

CLIX.

The sun is loveliest as he sinks to rest; The leaves of autumn smile when fading fast; The swan's last song is sweetest--and the best Of Meigs's speeches, doubtless, was his last.

And thus the happiest scene, in these my rhymes, Closed with a crash, and usher'd in--hard times.

CLX.

St. Paul's toll'd one--and fifteen minutes after Down came, by accident, a chandelier; The mansion totter'd from the floor to rafter!

Up rose the cry of agony and fear!

And there was shrieking, screaming, bustling, fluttering, Beyond the power of writing or of uttering.

CLXI.

The company departed, and neglected To say good-by--the father storm'd and swore-- The fiddlers grinn'd--the daughter look'd dejected-- The flowers had vanish'd from the polish'd floor, And both betook them to their sleepless beds, With hearts and prospects broken, but no heads.

CLXII.

The desolate relief of free complaining Came with the morn, and with it came bad weather; The wind was east-northeast, and it was raining Throughout that day, which, take it altogether, Was one whose memory clings to us through life, Just like a suit in Chancery, or a wife.

CLXIII.

That evening, with a most important face And dreadful knock, and tidings still more dreadful, A notary came--sad things had taken place; My hero had forgot to "do the needful;"

A note (amount not stated), with his name on't, Was left unpaid--in short, he had "stopp'd payment."

CLXIV.

I hate your tragedies, both long and short ones (Except Tom Thumb, and Juan's Pantomime); And stories woven of sorrows and misfortunes Are bad enough in prose, and worse in rhyme; Mine, therefore, must be brief. Under protest His notes remain--the wise can guess the rest.

CLXV.

CLXVI.

For two whole days they were the common talk; The party, and the failure, and all that, The theme of loungers in their morning walk, Porter-house reasoning, and tea-table chat.

The third, some newer wonder came to blot them, And on the fourth, the "meddling world" forgot them.

CLXVII.

Anxious, however, something to discover, I pa.s.s'd their house--the shutters were all closed; The song of knocker and of bell was over; Upon the steps two chimney sweeps reposed; And on the door my dazzled eyebeam met These cabalistic words--"this house to let."

CLXVIII.

They live now, like chameleons, upon air And hope, and such cold, unsubstantial dishes; That they removed, is clear, but when or where None knew. The curious reader, if he wishes, May ask them, but in vain. Where grandeur dwells, The marble dome--the popular rumour tells;

CLXIX.

But of the dwelling of the proud and poor From their own lips the world will never know When better days are gone--it is secure Beyond all other mysteries here below, Except, perhaps, a maiden lady's age, When past the noonday of life's pilgrimage.

CLXX.

f.a.n.n.y! 'twas with her name my song began; 'Tis proper and polite her name should end it; If in my story of her woes, or plan Or moral can be traced, 'twas not intended; And if I've wrong'd her, I can only tell her I'm sorry for it--so is my bookseller.

CLXXI.

I met her yesterday--her eyes were wet-- She faintly smiled, and said she had been reading The Treasurer's Report in the Gazette, M'Intyre's speech, and Campbell's "Love lies bleeding;"

She had a shawl on, 'twas not a Cashmere one, And if it cost five dollars, 'twas a dear one.

CLXXII.

Her father sent to Albany a prayer For office, told how fortune had abused him, And modestly requested to be Mayor-- The Council very civilly refused him; Because, however much they might desire it, The "public good," it seems, did not require it.

CLXXIII.

Some evenings since, he took a lonely stroll Along Broadway, scene of past joys and evils; He felt that withering bitterness of soul, Quaintly denominated the "blue devils;"

And thought of Bonaparte and Belisarius, Pompey, and Colonel Burr, and Caius Marius,