In the gay waltz, from her brighteyes, Or from the lucciole, that spangled Her locks of jet-is all surmise.

Certain it is, the ethereal girl

Did drop a spark, at some odd turning, Which, by the waltz's windy whirl,

Was fanned up into actual burning.

Oh for that lamp's metallic gauze

That curtain of protecting wireWhich Davy delicately draws

Around illicit, dangerous fire!—

The wall he sets 'twixt flame and air (Like that which barred young Thisbe's bliss),

Through whose small holes this dangerous pair

May see each other, but not kiss.1

A sign, they say, that no good bodedThen quick the gas became unruly, And, crack! the ball-room all exploded.

Sylphs, Gnomes, and fiddlers, mixed together,

With all their aunts, sons, cousins, nieces,

Like butterflies, in stormy weather, Were blown-legs, wings, and tails— to pieces!

While, 'mid these victims of the torch,

The Sylph, alas! too, bore her partFound lying with a livid scorch, As if from lightning, o'er her heart! 'Well done!' a laughing goblin said, Escaping from this gaseous strife; ''Tis not the first time Love has made A blow-up in connubial life.'

LOVE had a fever--ne'er could close

His little eyes till day was breaking; And whimsical enough, Heaven knows The things he raved about while waking.

To let him pine so were a sin

One to whom all the world's a debtorSo Doctor Hymen was called in,

And Love that night slept rather better

Next day the case gave further hope yet, Though still some ugly fever latent;'Dose as before,'- -a gentle opiate,

For which old Hymen has a patent.

After a month of daily call,

So fast the dose went on restoring, That Love, who first ne'er slept at all, Now took, the rogue! to downright snoring.

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.

SWEET Sirmio! thou, the very eye
Of all peninsulas and isles
That in our lakes of silver lie,
Or sleep, enwreathed by Neptune's
smiles,

How gladly back to thee I fly!
Still doubting, asking can it be
That I have left Bithynia's sky,
And gaze in safety upon thee?
Oh! what is happier than to find

Our hearts at ease, our perils past;
When, anxious long, the lightened mind
Lays down its load of care at last?—
When, tired with toil on land and deep,
Again we tread the welcome floor
Of our own home, and sink to sleep
On the long-wished-for bed once

more?

This, this it is that alone
pays
The ills of all life's former track--
Shine out, my beautiful, my own
Sweet Sirmio-greet thy master back.
And thou, fair lake, whose water quaffs
The light of heaven, like Lydia's sea,
Rejoice, rejoice-let all that laughs
Abroad, at home, laugh out for me!

COUNTRY DANCE AND QUADRILLE.

ONE night, the nymph called Country Dance

Whom folks of late have use so ill,

Preferring a coquette from France, A mincing thing, Mamselle Quadrille

Having been chased from London down To that last, humblest haunt of all She used to grace--a country-townWent smiling to the New Year's ball 'Here, here, at least,' she cried, ‘though driven

From London's gay and shining tracks

Though, like a Peri cast from Heaven, I've lost, for ever lost, Almack's— 'Though not a London Miss alive

Would now for her acquaintance own

Here, here, at least, I triumph still, And-spite of some few dandy lancers,

Who vainly try to preach Quadrille— See nought but true-blue country. dancers.

'Here still I reign, and, fresh in charms,

My throne, like Magna Charta, raise 'Mong sturdy, free-born legs and arms, That scorn the threatened chaîne Anglaise.'

'Twas thus she said, as, 'mid the din

Of footmen, and the town sedan, She 'lighted at the King's Head Inn, And up the stairs triumphant ran. The squires and their squiresses all,

With young squirinas just come out, And my lord's daughters from the Hall (Quadrillers in their hearts no doubt), Already, as she tripped up stairs, She in the cloak-room sw assem、 bling

From the first fiddle, set her trembling.

She stops-she listens-can it be?
Alas! in vain her ears would 'scapeit-
It is Di tanti palpiti,'

As plain as English bow can scrape it.
Courage!' however, in she goes,
With her best sweeping country

grace;

When, ah! too true, her worst of foes, Quadrille, there meets her, face to face.

Oh for the lyre, or violin,

Or kit of that gay Muse, Terpsichore, To sing the rage these nymphs were in, Their looks and language, airs and trickery!

There stood Quadrille, with cat-like face (The bau idéal of French beauty), A band-box thing, all art and lace, Down from her nose-tip to her shoetie.

Her flounces, fresh from VictorineFrom Hippolyte her rouge and hair— Her poetry, from Lamartine

Her morals from the Lord knows

where.

And when she danced--so slidingly,

So near the ground she plied her art, You'd swear her mother-earth and she Had made a compact ne'er to part. Her face the while, demure, sedate, No signs of life or motion showing, Like a bright pendule's dial-plate

So still, you'd hardly think 'twas going.

Full fronting her stood Country-DanceA fresh, frank nymph, whom you would know

For English, at a single glance-
English all o'er, from top to toe.

A little gauche, 'tis fair to own,

And playing oft the devil with flounces.

'An old English country-dance.

a Another old English country-dance.