Classic Poem

OUR BALL

Y OU'LL come to our Ball; — since we parted,
— I've thought of you more than I'll say;
Indeed, I was half broken-hearted
— For a week, when they took you away.
Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers
— Our walks on the Ness and 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 changed 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 with 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,
— An 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,
— Grows harder by sudden degrees:
Time treads o'er the graves of affection;
— Sweet honey is turned into gall;
Perhaps you have no recollection
— That ever you danced at our Ball!

You once could be pleased with our ballads, —
— To-day you have critical ears;
You once could be charmed with our salads —
— Alas! you've been dining with Peers;
You trifled and flirted with many, —
— You've forgotten the when and the how;
There was one you liked better than any, —
— Perhaps you've forgotten her now.
But of those you remember most newly,
— Of those who delight or enthrall,
None love you a quarter so truly
— As some you will find at our Ball.

They tell me you've many who flatter,
— Because of your wit and your song:
They tell me — and what does it matter? —
— You like to be praised by the throng:
They tell me you're shadowed with laurel:
— They tell me you're loved by a Blue:
They tell me you're sadly immoral —
— Dear Clarence, that cannot be true!
But to me, you are still what I found you,
— Before you grew clever and tall;
And you'll think of the spell that once bound you;
— And you'll come — won't you come? — to our Ball!