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Whether it came, when close entangled | At first the torch looked rather bluely

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.'



WHAT! thou, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy name-
Thou, born of a Russell-whose instinct to run

The accustomed career of thy sires, is the same
As the eaglet's to soar with its eyes on the sun!

Whose nobility comes to thee, stamped with a seal,
Far, far more ennobling than monarch e'er set;
With the blood of thy race offered up for the weal
Of a nation that swears by that martyrdom yet!

Shalt thou be faint-hearted and turn from the strife,
From the mighty arena where all that is grand,
And devoted, and pure, and adorning in life,
Is for high-thoughted spirits, like thine, to command?

Oh no, never dream it-while good men despair
Between tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow,
Never think for an instant thy country can spare
Such a light from her darkening horizon as thou!

1 Partique dedêre

Cscula quisque suæ, non pervenientia contra, -Ovid.

With a spirit as meek as the gentlest of those
Who in life's sunny valley lie sheltered and warm;
Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose

To the top cliffs of Fortune, and breasted her storm;

With an ardour for liberty, fresh as in youth,

It first kindles the bard, and gives life to his lyre;
Yet mellowed, even now, by that mildness of truth
Which tempers, but chills not, the patriot fire;
With an eloquence-not like those rills from a height,
Which sparkle and foam, and in vapour are o'er;
But a current that works out its way into light
Through the filt'ring recesses of thought and of lore.
Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade;
If the stirrings of genius, the music of fame,

And the charms of thy cause have not power to persuade,
Yet think how to freedom thou'rt pledged by thy name.

Like the boughs of that laurel, by Delphi's decree,
Set apart for the fane and its service divine,
All the branches that spring from the old Russell tree,
Are by Liberty claimed for the use of her shrine.


'My birth-day!'-What a different | But oft, like Israel's incense, laid

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Upon unholy, earthly shrines-
Of nursing many a wrong desire-
Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire

That crossed my pathway for his

All this it tells, and, could I trace

The imperfect picture o'er again,
With power to add, retouch, efface
The lights and shades, the joy and

How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away-
All-but that freedom of the mind

Which hath been more than wealth

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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.


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

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


This, this it is that alone
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!

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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

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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

When, hark! some new outlandish airs, | Endangering thereby many a gown,

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


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


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.

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Alas, the change !-oh,

Where is the land could 'scape dis asters,

And rather given to skips and With such a Foreign Secretary, bounces;

Aided by foreign dancing-masters ?.

'An old English country-dance.

a Another old English country-dance.

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