  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. Fine creatures I’ve viewed many a one, With lovely shapes and angel faces, But I have seen them all outdone 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, Her shape—’tis elegance and ease, Unspoiled by art or modern dress, But gently tapering by degrees, And finely, “beautifully less.” Her foot—it was so wondrous small, So thin, so round, so slim, so neat, The buckle fairly hid it all, And seemed 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; 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.” And then she dances—better far Than heart can think, or tongue can tell, Not Heinel, Banti, or Guimar, E’er moved so graceful and so well. So easy glide her beauteous limbs, True as the echo to the sound, She seems, as through the dance she skims, 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. And zephyr on her lovely lips Has spread his choicest, sweetest roses, And there his heavenly nectar sips, And there in breathing sweet reposes. And there’s such music when she speaks, You may believe me when I tell ye, I’d rather hear her than the squeaks Or far famed squalls of Gabrielli. And sparkling wit and steady sense, In that fair form with beauty vie, But tinged with virgin diffidence, And the soft blush of modesty. Had I the treasures of the world, All the sun views or the seas borrow (Else may I to the devil be hurled), 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 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. George Ellis. |
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