THE LAST OF THE GRACES.

XV

Who seemed the envy or the boast of all:—For they were deemed the Graces of the ball.The first,—in spangled vesture—as she came,Shot from her eye keen Wit's electric flame,Whose sparks, tho' playful, like the lightning's dart,Fall on the cold, alike, and feeling heart.The next had veiled beneath a dazzling dressOf vain adornments her own loveliness,Resembling but that elegant deceit,The rose of Art—superb, without a sweet.The last was gentlest; but her soul—all love,Unveiled as Venus in her Paphian grove—Burned on her lips and quickly-heaving breast,As they were things but purposed to be prest.With arms entwined, these Graces of a night,—Wild Wit, False Taste, and Amorous Delight,Praised by the many, by the few admired,Performed their part, then suddenly retired :—The dance stood still—men watched the closing door!Sighed—turned—and all went gaily as before.

Contemplating the scene, my sight grew dim ;—The ceaseless whirling made my senses swim :Quick o'er my frame there came a torpid chill;The tapers died ; and all was dark and still;