The débutantes are in force to-night,
Sweet as their roses, pure as truth;
Dreams of beauty in clouds of tulle;
Blushing, fair in their guileless youth.
Flashing bright glances carelessly--
Carelessly, think you! Wait and see
How their sweetest smile is kept for him
Whom "mother" considers a good _parti_.
For the matrons watch and guard them well--
Little for youth or love care they;
The man they seek is the man with gold,
Though his heart be black, and his hair be gray.
"Nellie, how _could_ you treat _him_ so!
You know very well he is Goldmore's heir,"
"Jennie, look modest! Glance down and blush,--
Here comes papa with young Millionaire."
On a cold, gray rock, in Grecian seas,
The sirens sit, and _their_ glamour try--
Warm white bosoms press harps of gold,
The while Ulysses' ship sails by.
Fair are the forms the sailors see,
Sweet are the songs the sailors hear
And--cool and wary, shrewd and old,
The sirens' mothers are watching near,
Whispering counsel--"Fling back your hair,
It hides your shoulder." "Don't sing so fast!"
"Darling, _don't_ look at that fair young man,
Try that old fellow there by the mast,
_His_ arms are jewelled"--let it go!
Too bitter all this for an idle rhyme;
But sirens are kin of the gods, be sure,
And change but little with lapse of time.