Smoothly flowing thro' verdant vales,

  Gentle river, thy current runs,

Sheltered safe from winter gales,

  Shaded cool from summer suns.

Thus our Youth's sweet moments glide.

  Fenced with flowery shelter round;

No rude tempest wakes the tide,

  All its path is fairy ground.

But, fair river, the day will come,

  When, wooed by whispering groves in vain,

Thou'lt leave those banks, thy shaded home,

  To mingle with the stormy main.

And thou, sweet Youth, too soon wilt pass

  Into the world's unsheltered sea,

Where, once thy wave hath mixt, alas,

  All hope of peace is lost for thee.

Next turn we to the gay saloon,

Resplendent as a summer noon,

  Where, 'neath a pendent wreath of lights,

A Zodiac of flowers and tapers—

(Such as in Russian ball-rooms sheds

Its glory o'er young dancers' heads)—

  Quadrille performs her mazy rites,

And reigns supreme o'er slides and capers;—

Working to death each opera strain,

  As, with a foot that ne'er reposes,

She jigs thro' sacred and profane,

  From "Maid and Magpie" up to "Moses;"—[3]

Wearing out tunes as fast as shoes,

  Till fagged Rossini scarce respires;

Till Meyerbeer for mercy sues,

  And Weber at her feet expires.

And now the set hath ceased—the bows

Of fiddlers taste a brief repose,

While light along the painted floor,

  Arm within arm, the couples stray,

Talking their stock of nothings o'er,

  Till—nothing's left at last to say.

When lo!—most opportunely sent—

  Two Exquisites, a he and she,

Just brought from Dandyland, and meant

  For Fashion's grand Menagerie,

Entered the room—and scarce were there

When all flocked round them, glad to stare

At any monsters, any where.

Some thought them perfect, to their tastes;

While others hinted that the waists

(That in particular of the he thing)

Left far too ample room for breathing:

Whereas, to meet these critics' wishes,

  The isthmus there should be so small,

That Exquisites, at last, like fishes,

  Must manage not to breathe at all.

The female (these same critics said),

  Tho' orthodox from toe to chin,

Yet lacked that spacious width of head

  To hat of toadstool much akin—

That build of bonnet, whose extent

Should, like a doctrine of dissent,

  Puzzle church-doors to let it in.

However—sad as 'twas, no doubt,

That nymph so smart should go about,

With head unconscious of the place

It ought to fill in Infinite Space—

Yet all allowed that, of her kind,

A prettier show 'twas hard to find;

While of that doubtful genus, "dressy men,"

The male was thought a first-rate specimen.

Such Savans, too, as wisht to trace

The manners, habits, of this race—

To know what rank (if rank at all)

'Mong reasoning things to them should fall—

What sort of notions heaven imparts

To high-built heads and tight-laced hearts

And how far Soul, which, Plato says,

Abhors restraint, can act in stays—

Might now, if gifted with discerning,

Find opportunities of learning:

As these two creatures—from their pout

And frown, 'twas plain—had just fallen out;

And all their little thoughts, of course.

Were stirring in full fret and force;—

Like mites, through microscope espied,

A world of nothings magnified.

But mild the vent such beings seek,

The tempest of their souls to speak:

As Opera swains to fiddles sigh,

To fiddles fight, to fiddles die,

Even so this tender couple set

Their well-bred woes to a Duet.