Before his patent scraper sold
    Old Highboys used to beat them all! 
  See what Society has done—­
      He’s holding her cashmere shawl!

  How is it, Madam, that I know
    The guests at once?  Wipe off the paint—­
  Convention daubs us all alike,
      Sinner as well as Saint!

  I see you in the crimson chair,
    Behind your jewelled Spanish fan,
  Slipping your bracelets up and down,
      Flashing your eyes on the man

  Who plays the harp; he twangs an air
    You understand—­you’ve met before;
  How many lessons did you take? 
      Madam, you need no more.

  Tiger of fifty!  So you’ve bought
    This pretty girl in the Honiton lace. 
  Now she’s abroad, she quite forgets
      She shudders in your embrace.

  Dowagers, stiff in black brocades,
    Worry the waiters—­sweep their trays: 
  How they scowl at the foolish men
      Basking in Beauty’s blaze!

  Saunters a poet, munching cake: 
    “Very distinguished.”  “Did you buy
  Your lace at Beck’s?” “Why, how he laughs!”
      “But his verses make one cry!”

  Idle poet, a word with you: 
    You sing too much of love’s sweet wrong,
  Of rosy cheeks, and purple wine: 
      Give us a loftier song.

  The coachmen stamp upon the steps;
    Our hostess looks towards the door;
  Our host twists round his limp cravat,
      Pronouncing the thing a bore!

  Our skeletons will be stirring soon;
    Something already touches me: 
  Off, till I drain one bottle more!
      Vive la compagnie!

THE RACE.

The guests were gathered in the ancient park Of my Lord Wynne, and he was now their mark For wit and gossip—­quite the usual way, Where one bestows, and no one need repay.  “A stumbling-block his pride; his heart’s in strife Between two women, which to choose for wife.  He’s always hovering round that lovely girl, His lawyer’s daughter, who will never furl Her flag of pride:  she rivals Gilbert there.  Now watch their meeting; none more bravely wear Their beauty, recognize a woman’s own, Than Clara Mercome.  Gilbert Wynne has sown His wild oats for her sake; yet he delays, And with my Lady Bond divides his days.  Who bets on beauty, hedges in on age; Which tries the flight to perch in Lord Wynne’s cage?  Will Lady Bond or Clara be the queen?  For Lady Bond is certain of her lien.”  He heard this talk while standing by a beech—­ Hugh Wynne—­and planned how he might overreach Gilbert and Clara, break the pride of both, Part them for good, or make them plight their troth.  “Now for a race,” he cried, “to Martin’s Mill; The boats are here; behold, the lake is still.  Here, Gilbert, take your oar; I’ll follow soon, Though sunset’s nigh—­to-night is harvest-moon.  Let go the rope, the knot’s inside; take these, Arrange a seat, adjust it at