I'm sure belongs to Lady Morgan,) full,
We must confess, of strange variety.
From epic down to ballad. Here's a pair
Will bow and curtsy, in chapeau and hoop,
Then stalk the stately minuetto round,

Ending where they began their metaphysics,

With bow and curtsy! this is called "engagement"-
Very engaging truly! Here's another,

Goes you to church in galliard, and returns
In a coranto. One is all adagio,

Another naught but jig. All times, all movements,
This mighty master of the heart-strings tries

In his capricio: most full of crotchets,

And quavers, too, is love-as I have learn'd
From the old book of nature, always open.
I knew a gentleman was quite unlover'd,
('Twas in the days when youthful damsels sew'd
What time our mothers flourish'd,) for his mistress
Threaded her needle with a too careless air
While he read Werter to her. And 'tis giv'n
As a strict verity, when Dame Von Haller
First rear'd her cambric banner o'er the stage,
Commanding tears to flow-two German barons,
Warm lovers too, as German barons may be,
Broke troth and plight with their affianced brides
The self-same night-the first because his lady
Was weak enough to weep a sister's fall;
The other, for his fair display'd a heart
So hard, it would not melt at other's woes.
And such is love-or such, at least, the whims
Of those by courtesy call'd lovers, fellows
Who plume themselves upon their manliness,
And arrogate superiority

Over a sex, which, in all things where love
Truly is shown:-in faith and constancy,
(Ay, sneer ye brainless coxcombs, constancy,)

In perfect self-devotedness: in courage

To brave the world's barbarity; and patience

To bear e'en wrong from him for whom that world
Was cast aside, and lost: in truth and honour:

In pure, enduring, fond and fix'd affection,
Nature has placed upon an elevation
In her great scale of being, over man;
Man, that mere egotist, vain, fickle, selfish,
In whom e'en love is a disease, a kind
Of tertain that by fits freezes the soul,
Or burns it up with fever-yea, as high
As the most glorious Heavens are raised above
The gross and sordid Earth. But to resume
My tale-which, by the way, I have not yet
Begun, I think-without more preface, or
Digression--for I hate digressions more,
If possible, than long and wordy preface-
But who could ever yet encounter woman
And keep the onward, jog-trot, business pace,
Passing her without reverence?-To my story:-
There lived in Italy, I think near Florence,
Some brace of centuries past, a good old count,
Who, in his fine old castle rear'd a daughter,
His only child-Angelica-so named,
Perhaps, from her of the divine "Orlando;"
Medoro's fair Angelica, the fondest

And tenderest of women, whose sweet face,
As given by Cipriani I could kiss

Although but in translation, from the copper
Of Bartolozzi. Our Angelica

Was beautiful:-but I had rather not
Describe minutely, lest it should be deem'd
Invidious, by some female friend of mine

Whom the description suited not. "Tis dangerous
To dwell on female charms too long or warmly,
Or too particularly-I never do,

Save in a sonnet to my lady's eye-brow,
And then, if that be flaxen, I avoid
Praise of the raven arch, and vice versa.
So, what our heroine was, in shape or air
And feature and complexion-whether pale
And interesting, of fragile, sylph-like form-
Or flush and fat-I beg a million pardons,
I mean-approaching to the embonpoint,
Haply the painter may divulge, not I.

She was a frank, kind-hearted, generous creature—
Had proved a most dear daughter; and, within
Her innocent heart had stores of precious love
To bless the happy husband, far beyond
His fondest hope, were he the veriest miser
In Hymen's wide domain. I can't aver
She was in love, for she had liv'd secluded,
Shut out from all society, to please

Her good old sire, who, since her mother's death,
Grew, to be plain, hypochondrical.

Yet so it was, she was betrothed, to one
She thought, at least, she loved. Ippolito

Was a fair youth of a right noble lineage,
Who came from Florence duly every summer,
To rusticate among his father's oaks.
Angelica and he had met—and so

Became of course, in the country, lovers-and
The match being eligible on either side,
The estates already wed, the parents smiled,
The notary chuckled, and the lovers blush'd
And were betrothed: how soon a contract's made
When all are to be gainers. Love, however,
Smiled not, it seems, on those solemnities.
Perhaps he did not like the notary,

Love does not write his billets doux on parchment.
The sequel will denote he was displeased,
Yet such a sequel to a tale of love

Perhaps was never read of. You shall hear.
'Twas near the day of marriage, when our bride
Stood at the casement, whence she'd often watch'd
The light step of her lover, as he came
Across the smiling meadow. 'Twas a day
The hottest of the hottest summer-one
Almost too hot for love, who's fire itself:
'Twas afternoon-Angelica, poor girl,
Had not, as usual, taken her siesta,
(Why, is unknown-young ladies, it is said,
Get fidgetty when near their wedding day.)
I would advise both old and young, who live
In melting latitudes, not to omit

Their little snug siesta after dinner,
It is refreshing, and prepares the mind
And body too, for evening business.
Angelica in vain look'd far and wide
For her Ippolito: the gentle youth

No doubt was fast asleep. She sat her down

And tried her lute-'twas out of tune, and harsh;

Her voice-'twas weak and husky. Then she look'd Out on the sylvan scene-all nature seem'd

Sunk in siesta; not a single bird

Was seen or heard; the very flowers gave forth
A sleepy kind of odour, like the breath

Of slumb'ring beauty. There was not abroad
A sound, nor scarce a motion. The dull breeze
No longer flapp'd its flagging wings—it slept.
The air seem'd powder'd fire-all-all was hot,
Hot, hot and hush-that e'en the waterfall
That glitter'd in the sun, look'd like the gush
Of boiling water from a copper kettle.
Angelica arose, and walk'd across

The apartment to her glass-how natural:

She did not like her looks; she did not like

The glass, nor e'en the harmless peacock's feather

That hung above; who can like any thing
In such hot weather? Then she sat again,
In a great chair, and look'd upon her flowers,
And took a volume up, and laid it down,
And then applied her compasses to the globe,
Haply to see how far it was from thence
To a cold country. Nothing would avail,
A charm was in the air, and every thing
Must sleep-books-compasses

Fell on the floor-and slept; Angelica

Lean'd back her head in her great chair—and slept.
I do not know how long the lady slumber'd,
These are particulars my manners will not
Permit me to pry into, but 'tis clear
"Twas a sound nap she took. Ippolito

Had finished his some time, and made his toilet,
Which was no hasty matter. The fresh breeze,
(Refresh'd by sleep,) was springing up, in short,
'Twas almost evening, when the lover stept
Empassion'd and perfum'd into the room.
I never yet could fully comprehend
The doctrine of antipathies-nor pardon
The man who feared or hated what in nature,
Was innocent and harmless-yet there be
Such arrant fopperies-and of all fopperies
They are the worst-and of this worst the worst
Is, that a man shall hate to see a woman

Eat, and so forth-my lord Ippolito
Was no Lord Byron in the main, yet he
Was as ridiculous in this particular.
'Twas his aversion-what a pretty term-
To see or hear a woman sleep. Ye gods,
Aversion to a sleeping woman-well,
The histories do not say Angelica

Breathed louder than young ladies ought to breathe

When they're asleep no one has dared to say it,