OH! what is woman's tongue?
'Tis an organ composed of most wonderful stops, Delighting, affrighting,
Amusing, abusing,
Eighteen and threescore,
High, low, rich and poor,
Peers, parsons and poets, prigs, pedants and fops,
And is seldom or never unstrung.
But what words can set forth,
All its magical worth,
When in tones, which a Seraph might borrow,
It ill fortune doth sooth,
Blunts adversity's tooth,
Steals the tear from the eyelid of sorrow.
When pleasure abounds,
Its enlivening sounds,
Give to rapture's soft accents new breath-
Rouse the hero to arms,
Check the rising alarms,
And guide him to conquest or death!
But how alter'd the tone,
When wounded he's thrown,
Where pale sickness her vigils doth keep,
Its soft lullaby then,
Draws the sting out of pain,
And sends even anguish to sleep!
But when the noisy tempests chatter,
Mercy on us! what a clatter!
How the sharps ring in our ears,
Every note how discord tears!
Then are all the changes rung,
Thro' the flights of woman's tongue-
Like the drum, it sounds alarms,
Like the trumpet, wakes to arms,
Like the fife, it whistles shrilly,
'Till its piercing wild notes thrill ye-
Subduing soon, the horn it tries,
And in softening murmurs dies.-
Like the harp, its measures sweep
Reviving pleasure's round to keep,
Then, like the flute, it lulls to sleep.
Soon like the sweet guitar,
Which lovers slyly seek
When morn's soft blushes break,
It tinks through the window bar,
And calls on Love to wake.
Thus ev'ry day,
Does this organ play,
Its pleasing, teasing,
Cheering, fleering,
Jingling, tingling,
Stealing, pealing,
Darting, smarting,
Creeping, sweeping,
Gliding, chiding,
Coaxing, hoaxing,
Never ending roundelay
With drums, guitars, and trumpets' sound,
Harps, horns, and flutes make up the round,
Of woman's endless roundelay.
The fair writer of "Solitary Hours," has shown that she can invoke the cheerful muse, with vividness and truth. Her doctrine is sound and beautifully inculcated.
A fair place and pleasant, this same world of ours!
Who says there are serpants 'mongst all the sweet flowers?
Who says every blossom we pluck has its thorn?
Pho! pho! laugh those musty old sayings to scorn.
If you roam to the tropics for flow'rs rich and rare,
No doubt there are serpents, and deadly ones, there-
If none but the rose will content ye, 'tis true
You may get sundry scratches, and ugly ones too.
But prithee, look there, could a serpent find room,
In that close woven moss, where those violets bloom?
And reach me that woodbine (you'll get it with ease)
Now, wiseacre! where are the thorns, if you please?
say there are angels in every spot,
Though our dim earthly vision discerneth them not;
That they're guardians assigned to the least of us all,
By Him who takes note if a Sparrow but fall;
That they're ay flitting near us, around us, above,
On missions of kindness, compassion, and love,-
That they're glad when we're happy, disturbed at our tears,
Distressed at our weaknesses, failings, and fears;
That they care for the least of our innocent joys,
Though we're cozened like children, with trifles and toys;
And can lead us to bloom-beds, and lovely ones too,
Where snake never harboured, and thorn never grew.
The following lines, from the same volume, are warm from a soft and affectionate heart.
I never cast a flower away,
The gift of one who cared for me,-
A little flower, a faded flower,
But it was done reluctantly.
I never looked a last adieu
To things familiar, but my heart
Shrank with a feeling, almost pain,
E'en from their lifelessness to part.
I never spoke the word, "farewell,"
But with an utterance faint and broken;
And heart-sick longing for the time
When it shall never more be spoken.
In Broad-street buildings, on a winter's night,
Snug by his parlour fire, a gouty wight
Sate all alone, with one hand rubbing
His leg, rolled up in a fleecy hose,
While t'other held beneath his nose
The Public Leger, in whose columns grubbing, He noted all the sales of hops, Ships, shops, and slops,
Gum, galls, and groceries, ginger, gin, Tar, tallow, turmerick, turpentine, and tin, When, lo! a decent personage in black Entered, and most politely said,
'Your footman, Sir, has gone his nightly track To the King's Head,
And left your door ajar, which I
Observed in passing by,
And thought it neighbourly to give you notice." "Ten thousand thanks! how very few get,
Such kind attentions from a stranger!
Assuredly that fellow's throat is
Doom'd to a final drop at Newgate.
He knows, too, the unconsionable elf,
That there's no soul at home except myself."
"Indeed!" replied the stranger, looking grave,
"Then he's a double knave.
He knows that rogues and thieves by scores
Nightly beset unguarded doors;
And see how easily might one
Of these domestic foes,
Even beneath your very nose,
Perform his knavish tricks!
Enter your room as I have done,
Blow out your candle thus-and thus
Pocket your silver candlesticks,
And walk off-thus."
So said, so done-he made no more remark,
Nor waited for replies,
But marched off with his prize,
Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark.
Wake, Lady, wake! the midnight moon
Sails through the cloudless skies of June,
The stars gaze sweetly on the stream,
Which, in the brightness of their beam
One sheet of glory lies;
The glow-worm lends its little light,
And all that's beautiful and bright
Is shining on our world to-night,
Save thy bright eyes.
Wake, Lady wake! the nightingale
Tells to the moon her love-lorn tale;
Now doth the brook that's hushed by day,
As through the vale she winds her way
In murmurs sweet rejoice;
The leaves, by the soft night-wind stirred,
Are whispering many a gentle word,
And all earth's sweetest sounds are heard,
Save thy sweet voice.
Wake, Lady, wake! thy lover waits,
Thy steed stands saddled at the gates:
Here is a garment rich and rare
To wrap thee from the cold night-air;
The appointed hour is flown;
Danger and doubt have vanished quite,
Our way before lies clear and right,
And all is ready for the flight,
Save thou alone.
Wake, Lady, wake! I have a wreath,
Thy broad fair brow should rise beneath;
I have a ring that must not shine
On any finger, love, but thine-
I've kept my plighted vow;
Beneath thy casement here I stand,
To lead thee by thy own white hand,
Far from this dull and captive strand,
But where art thou?
Wake, Lady, wake! She wakes, she wakes,
Through the green mead her course she takes-
And now her lover's arms enfold
A prize more precious far than gold,
Blushing like morning's ray;
Now mount thy palfrey, maiden kind,
Nor pause to cast one look behind,
But swifter than the viewless wind,
Away, away!
OCTOBER, 1826.NO. 288. 43
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