d the Den,
And echoed the musical numbers
Which you used to sing to me then.
I know the romance, since it's over,
'Twere idle, or worse, to recall:--
I know you're a terrible rover:
But, Clarence,--you'll come to our Ball!

It's only a year, since at College
You put on your cap and your gown;
But, Clarence, you're grown out of knowledge,
And chang'd from the spur to the crown:
The voice that was best when it faltered
Is fuller and firmer in tone;
And the smile that should never have altered,--
Dear Clarence,--it is not your own:
Your cravat was badly selected,
Your coat don't become you at all;
And why is your hair so neglected?
You _must_ have it curled for our Ball.

I've often been out upon Haldon,
To look for a covey with Pup:
I've often been over to Shaldon,
To see how your boat is laid up:
In spite of the terrors of Aunty,
I've ridden the filly you broke;
And I've studied your sweet, little Dante,
In the shade of your favourite oak:
When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence,
I sat in your love of a shawl;
And I'll wear what you brought me from Florence,
Perhaps, if you'll come to our Ball.

You'll find us all changed since you vanished:
We've set up a National School,
And waltzing is utterly banished--
And Ellen has married a fool--
The Major is going to travel--
Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout--
The walk is laid down with fresh gravel--
Papa is laid up with the gout:
And Jane has gone on with her easels,
And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul;
And Fanny is sick of the measles,--
And I'll tell you the rest at the Ball.

You'll meet all your Beauties;--the Lily,
And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm,
And Lucy, who made me so silly
At Dawlish, by taking your arm--
Miss Manners, who always abused you,
For talking so much about Hock--
And her sister who often amused you,
By raving of rebels and Rock;
And something which surely would answer,
A heiress, quite fresh from Bengal--
So, though you were seldom a dancer,
You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball.

But out on the world!--from the flowers
It shuts out the sunshine of truth;
It blights the green leaves in the bowers,
It makes an old age of our youth:
And the flow of our feeling, once in it,
Like a streamlet beginning to freeze,
Though it cannot turn ice in a minute,