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 Who hardly of joy's cup one drop can sip, Ere in the wild confusion, and the whirl, And tumult of the hour, its bubbles vanish, Must now be disregarded. One must banish

Those antiquated feelings, that belong To feudal manners and a barbarous age. Time was—when woman "poured her soul" in song, That all was hushed around. 'Tis now "the rage" To deem a song, like bugle-tones in battle, A signal-note, that bids each tongue's artillery rattle.

And, therefore, I have made Miss Fanny wait My leisure. She had changed, as you will see, as Much as her worthy sire, and made as great Proficiency in taste and high ideas. The careless smile of other days was gone, And every gesture spoke "qu'en dira-t-on?"

She long had known that in her father's coffers, And also to his credit in the banks, There was some cash; and therefore all the offers Made her, by gentlemen of the middle ranks, Of heart and hand, had spurned, as far beneath One whose high destiny it was to breathe,