Cold Ceremony

Where the dire Circle keeps its station,
Each common phrase is an oration;
And cracking fans, and whispering misses,
Compose their Conversation blisses.
The matron marks the goodly show,
While the tall daughter eyes the beau —
The frigid beau! — Ah! luckless fair,
'Tis not for you that studied air;
Ah! not for you that sidelong glance,
And all that charming nonchalance;
Ah! not for you the three long hours
He worshipped the " cosmetic powers";
That finished head which breathes perfume,
And kills the nerves of half the room;
And all the murders meant to lie
In that large, languishing, grey eye.
Desist; — less wild th' attempt would be
To warm the snows of Rhodope:
Too cold to feel, too proud to feign,
For him you're wise and fair in vain.
Chill shade of that affected Peer,
Who dreaded Mirth! come safely here;
For here no vulgar joy effaces
Thy rage for polish, ton, and graces.
Cold Ceremony's leaden hand
Waves o'er the room her poppy wand.
Arrives the stranger: every guest
Conspires to torture the distressed;
At once they rise — so have I seen —
You guess the simile I mean,
Take what comparison you please,
The crowded streets, the swarming bees,
The pebbles on the shores that lie,
The stars, which form the galaxy;
This serves t' embellish what is said,
And shows, besides, that one has read; —
At once they rise — th' astonished guest
Back in a corner slinks, distressed;
Scared at the many bowing round,
And shocked at her own voice's sound,
Forgot the thing she meant to say,
Her words, half-uttered, die away;
In sweet oblivion down she sinks,
And of her ten appointments thinks:
While her loud neighbour on the right
Boasts what she has to do tonight;
So very much, you'd swear her pride is
To match the labours of Alcides;
'Tis true, in hyperbolic measure,
She nobly calls her labours pleasure ;
In this, unlike Alcmena's son,
She never means they should be done;
Her fancy of no limits dreams,
No! ne plus ultra bounds her schemes;
Fired at th' idea, out she flounces,
And a new martyr John announces.