Ah! then and there are hurryings to and fro
And gathering tears, and poutings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which some short hours ago
Glowed with the deep delights of Dance and Dress;
And there are sudden partings, such as press
The hope from Spoons of promise, meaning sighs
Which ne'er may be repeated; who can guess
If ever more shall meet those mutual eyes,
When Dissolution snaps the Season's tenderest ties?
And there is scuttling in hot haste: the steed,
The Coaching Meet, the Opera's latest star,
The Row, the River, the Vitellian feed,--
All the munitions of the Social War,
Seem fruitless now, when peal on peal afar
And near, the beat of the great Party Drum
Rouses M.P.'s to platform joust and jar,
While tongue-tied dullards scarcely dare be dumb,
When the Whips whisper "Go!" Wirepullers clamour "Come!"
"Too bad! Too bad!" The Influenza chilled,
Court-mourning marred, the Season's earliest prime,
And now, just as with hope young breasts are filled,
When young leaves still are verdant on the lime,
When diners-out are having a good time,
When Epsom's o'er and Ascot is at hand;
To cut all short, is scarcely less than crime.
Confusion on that wrangling party-band
Whose Dissolution deals the doldrums round the land!
Ah! wild and high those Phantom-fiddlings rise!--
All jocund June with palsying terror thrills;
Fashion sits frozen dead with staring eyes.
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