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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.'
AFTER A CONVERSATION WITH LORD JOHN RUSSELL, IN WHICH HE HAD
WHAT! thou, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy name-
The accustomed career of thy sires, is the same
Whose nobility comes to thee, stamped with a seal,
Shalt thou be faint-hearted and turn from the strife,
Oh no, never dream it-while good men despair
1 Partique dedêre
Cscula quisque suæ, non pervenientia contra, -Ovid.
With a spirit as meek as the gentlest of those
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;
And the charms of thy cause have not power to persuade,
Like the boughs of that laurel, by Delphi's decree,
'My birth-day!'-What a different | But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines-
That crossed my pathway for his
All this it tells, and, could I trace
The imperfect picture o'er again,
How little of the past would stay!
Which hath been more than wealth
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
How gladly back to thee I fly!
Our hearts at ease, our perils past;
This, this it is that alone
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
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?
As plain as English bow can scrape it.
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-
A little gauche, 'tis fair to own,
And playing oft the devil with flounces.
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.