He was tall, slender, and handsome, and, like most
young British officers of late years, had picked up various small
accomplishments on the Continent: he could talk French and
Italian, draw landscapes, sing very tolerably, dance divinely,
but, above all, he had been wounded at Waterloo. What girl of
seventeen, well read in poetry and romance, could resist such a
mirror of chivalry and perfection?
The moment the dance was over he caught up a guitar, and, lolling
against the old marble fireplace in an attitude which I am half
inclined to suspect was studied, began the little French air of
the Troubadour. The squire, however, exclaimed against having
anything on Christmas Eve but good old English; upon which the
young minstrel, casting up his eye for a moment as if in an
effort of memory, struck into another strain, and with a charming
air of gallantry gave Herrick's "Night-Piece to Julia:"
Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee,
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.
No Will-o'-the-Wisp misligbt thee;
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee;
But on thy way,
Not making a stay,
Since ghost there is none to affright thee,
Then let not the dark thee cumber;
What though the moon does slumber,
The stars of the night
Will lend thee their light,
Like tapers clear without number.
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