TO MARION. WHY, maiden, art thou sad? So young, so fair, What can thy gentle bosom know of sorrow? For age are meant the furrowing lines of care: Why, then, such moody airs shall maiden borrow? Pray, hast thou caught that magic mirror's gleam, So hath it been, so must it ever be, When first, in seeming solitude, we hear The voice of Echo; though, in ecstasy, We fluttering follow, like charmed birds, in fear. And thou dost find an echo every where, A voice that blends with every tuneful tone, In every melody that melts on air; And yet that voice-pray, is it all unknown? There is an image o'er the earth and sea, THE AGE OF HAIR. As every dog must have his day, To glorify the tailor's art, The dandy struts his little season— From Stultz's*-O, despair! despair! Thy rank and station 'twould degrade, Beside the dandy, in degree A thing that glories in a cue, And that, perchance, not paid for But earthly pleasures pass away; whew! Kings turn to dust, and queens to clay; * It may be necessary to say to the uninitiated, that Stultz is, or was, the prince of London tailors, and has exercised as extensive and despotic a sway as any other tyrant of modern times. |