The song she thus, like Jubal's shell,
Gave forth "so sweetly and so well,"
Was one in Morning Post much famed,
From a _divine_ collection, named,
"Songs of the Toilet"--every Lay
Taking for subject of its Muse,
Some branch of feminine array,
Some item, with full scope, to choose,
From diamonds down to dancing shoes;
From the last hat that Herbault's hands
Bequeathed to an admiring world,
Down to the latest flounce that stands
Like Jacob's Ladder--or expands
Far forth, tempestuously unfurled.
Speaking of one of these new Lays,
The Morning Post thus sweetly says:--
"Not all that breathes from Bishop's lyre,
"That Barnett dreams, or Cooke conceives,
"Can match for sweetness, strength, or fire,
"This fine Cantata upon Sleeves.
"The very notes themselves reveal
"The cut of each new sleeve so well;
"A _flat_ betrays the _Imbecilles_,[2]
"Light fugues the flying lappets tell;
"While rich cathedral chords awake
'Our homage for the _Manches d'Eveque_."
'Twas the first opening song the Lay
Of all least deep in toilet-lore,
That the young nymph, to while away
The tiring-hour, thus warbled o'er:--
SONG.
Array thee, love, array thee, love,
In all thy best array thee;
The sun's below--the moon's above--
And Night and Bliss obey thee.
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