A SONG. 99 



Implicated,, in 1813, in some great political intrigue, Mloda went 

 the same year to Paris, where she took up her residence. At the 

 period of the Restoration she was known in the Fauxbourg St. Ger- 

 mains, where she occupied a magnificent hotel, by the name of the 



Countess A . She was at that time considered a lady of rank 



and respectability. So furious was her royalism that it served in the 

 " noble quartier" as a point of comparison, to all that was most 

 eminent in it. On more than one occasion the Emperor Alexander 

 had interviews at her hotel with several of the most distinguished 

 personages in France, who betrayed their country in their devotion 

 to the monarchy. In 1815 she emigrated with legitimacy, of which 

 she had become one of the firmest pillars, and accompanied it on its 

 return from Ghent. At this period she was presented at Court ! Her 

 devotion was now only equalled by her attachment to the good cause. 

 However, a misunderstanding of the most serious nature, which she 

 had with the police, during the Decazes' administration, obliged her 

 one more to disappear from the scene of the world. In 1823 or 

 1824, Mloda occupied, under a name that no more belonged to her 

 than the one she has just laid down, apartments in the Abbaye aux 

 Bois, where she received, every Wednesday, a select circle of friends. 



At the revolution of July she proceeded to Edinburgh, from 

 whence she accompanied the exiled family hither, from one of whom 

 she daily receives a visit. It is said that her royalism is as furious 

 as ever, and that she still retains her ancient predilection for certain 

 little pieces of gold with this difference, that she is now indifferent 

 whether they be pierced or not, and applies them to a better purpose 

 than that of decorating her raven tresses. 



SONG. 



MY lady pluck'd a blooming rose 



To plant upon her lily breast, 

 It softly closed its crimson leaves, 



And fondly kiss'd its snowy nest : 

 The silken leaves were gently stirr'd 



As her soft-heaving bosom shook, 

 Like the white plumage of a dove 



That coos beside some breezy brook. 



O ! had I been that waving rose 



Which on her angel bosom blush 'd, 

 And revell'd 'mid those heaving sighs, 



Whose lovely music none hath hush'd ; 

 Lived on the pantings of her heart, 



And caught h,er eye in tranquil rest, 

 Then, like that crimson- waving rose, 



I should have Keen for ever blest. 



