THE LIFE OF A SPORTSMAN 



ladysliip .so pi-opei4y styles liim, fancy hiinsolt' in love, than he 

 likewise fancies himself a poet.' 



' Surely,' exclaimed Lady Charlotte, ' he has not been writing- 

 verses to Mrs. Denham ? ' 



' I hope not,' replied Mr. Eoerton ; ' but that he has been 

 exercisino- his newly-acquired talent on Mrs. Denham, I fear 

 there is no reason to doubt ; and I speak from somewhat like 

 ocular demonstration of the fact. Happening- to enter his room 

 yesterday afternoon, in search of a book I had lent him, I saw 

 some sci-aps of paper on his table, on which, in spite of erasures 

 and alterations, I could decipher the following lines (the fair 

 copies, I presume, he may have put into his pocket, intending, 

 as may be also presumed, to throw the rough ones into the hre). 

 The first ran thus : — 



" Sweet's the light of morning breaking 



O'er the dew-bespangled mead ; 

 Sweet the night-breeze, hardly shaking 



In its course the pliant reed. 

 Sweeter far the smile enlightening 



Beauty's soft and sjiarkling cheek ; 

 And the sigh love's ardour heightening, 



With its breast so soft and meek." 



' Then scrap the second contained these : — 



"Thou hast an eye of tender l)lue, 

 And thou hast locks of sable hue. 

 And cheeks that shame the morning's break, 

 And lips that might, for redness, make 



Roses seem pale beside them : 

 But whether soft or sweet are they, 

 Lady, alas ! I cannot say, 



For / have never tried them. 



"Yet thus created for delight, 

 Lady ! thou art not " 



' He proceeds no further ; vulgarly speaking, there is a hole 

 in the ballad. But, turning over the paper, I found that his 

 muse had been again at work, and had again failed. Even love, 

 I fear, will not make Francis a poet. He had scribbled thus : — 



"The music cea.sed, the last gay dance was o'er. 

 And one by one the brilliant beauties lied ; 

 The garlands vanislied from the frescoed lloor. 

 The nodding liddlcr hung his weary head ; 



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