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Yet start not, accepted, whose look ne’er has left
Those eyes of whose light for this valse you’re bereft;
Though the long lashes droop, yet the lip may be bold,
And your rival’s expression betrays he is sold.
Forced, forced is his smile as he leads her away,
And cold is the parting with Vivian de Grey.
Is it over? Not so. Though the fortress be strong,
And repel the besieger for ever so long,
Still some traitor captain the gates may unbar,
Still the heart of a maid be betrayed by mama.
You have one other card, ’tis a strong one, to play:
Go straight at her mother, Sir Vivian de Grey!
Shortly told is the sequel. A matron all thunder,
At which ignorant stare and initiates wonder,
From the ball-room the light of the festival slips,
And the hearts of admirers are hush’d in eclipse;
And, as panels of blazonry whisk her away,
They curse thy diplomacy, Vivian de Grey!
Deluded young Leslie! 0, light be thy sleep!
Did’st thou know the night long how the darling will weep,
And the poor little bosom be tortured with sighs,
Not sweet were the slumbers that rest on thine eyes,
Not light the anathema breathed on the day
That usher’d to being Sir Vivian de Grey.
There’s a moral French adage we all recollect,
Which I think might be parodied here with effect.
It ought to be woven in festoons of roses,
“The man may propose, but the mother disposes;”
And the child that rebels must be school’d to obey
Like the child that is sold to Sir Vivian de Grey.
Well! ’tis well that a time comes when broken hearts mend,
And the lover of old becomes simply a friend;
Then she’ll kiss you the tip of her little mauve glove,
And forget, my poor Leslie, the young dream of Love;
Or turn the dear face from your soft words away,
With the sweetest of smiles, to Sir Vivian de Grey.
Yet bear yourself boldly; secure in your pride,
Unbraved in the ball-room, unmatch’d in the Ride;
And when in the future, as seasons roll on,
By some other bright eyes and soft smile you are won,
If hand be surrender’d, forget not to pray
To be surer of heart than Sir Vivian de Grey.
And you who seek hand without heart, gentles all,
First bag the old birds, and the young ones must fall.
By purse or by title, though coveys be wild,
Secure but the mother, you're safe of the child.
So the legend on you will be not thrown away
That is told of young Leslie and Vivian de Grey.
Ralph A. Benson.
