Ranged the wild rosy things in learned orders, till then adieu !» And has the sprite been here? No-jests apartHowe'er man rules in science and in art, The sphere of woman's glories is the heart. And, if our Muse have sketch'd with pencil true The wife-the mother-firm, yet gentle tooWhose soul, wrapp'd up in ties itself hath spun, Trembles, if touch'd in the remotest one; Who loves-yet dares even Love himself disown, When honour's broken shaft supports his throne: If such our Ina, she may scorn the evils, Dire as they are, of Critics and--Blue Devils. 'Mong the few guests from Ether, came That wicked Sylph, whom Love we callMy Lady knew him but by name, My Lord, her husband, not at all. Some prudent Gnomes, 't is said, apprized That he was coming, and, no doubt Alarm'd about his torch, advised He should, by all means, be kept out. But others disapproved this plan, And, by his flame though somewhat frighted, Thought Love too much a gentleman, In such a dangerous place to light it. However, there he was-and dancing With the fair Sylph, light as a feather: They look'd like two young sunbeams, glancing, At daybreak, down to earth together. And all had gone off safe and well, But for that plaguy torch-whose light, Though not yet kindled, who could tell How soon, how devilishly it might? And so it chanced-which in those dark And fireless halls, was quite amazing, Did we not know how small a spark Can set the torch of Love a-blazing. Whether it came, when close entangled Certain it is, the ethereal girl Did drop a spark, at some odd turning, Which, by the waltz's windy whirl, Was fann'd up into actual burning. Oh for that lamp's metallic gauze That curtain of protecting wireWhich Davy delicately draws Arcand illicit, dangerous fire! The wall he sets 'twixt flame and air (Like that which barr'd young Thisbe's bliss), Through whose small holes this dangerous pair May see each other but not kiss.' At first the torch looked rather bluely-- And, crack! the ball-room all exploded. Sylphs, Gnomes, and fiddlers, mix'd together, Were blown-legs, wings, and tails-to pieces! While, 'mid these victims of the torch, The Sylph, alas! too, bore her part— Found Iving, with a livid scorch, As if from lightning, o'er her heart! Partique dedere Oscula quisque suæ, non persenientia contra.-OVID. Whose nobility comes to thee, stamp'd with a seal, Far, far more ennobling than monarch e'er set; With the blood of thy race offer'd 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 dark'ning horizon as thou! With a spirit as meek as the gentlest of those Who in life's sunny valley lie shelter'd 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 mellow'd, 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, Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade; Yet think how to freedom thou 'rt pledged by thy name. Like the boughs of that laurel, by Delphi's decree, EPITAPH ON A LAWYER. HERE lies a lawyer-one whose mind (Like that of all the lawyer kind) Resembled, though so grave and stately, The pupil of a cat's eye greatly; Which for the mousing deeds, transacted On lawyer's mind or pussy's retina. Hence when he took to politics, Like imps at bo-peep, play'd the devil; Put all at once to a bas viol. Nay, even when honest (which he could But-do him justice- short and rare His wish through honest paths to roam; Born with a taste for the unfair, Where falsehood call'd he still was there, And when least honest most at home. Thus, shuffling, bullying, lying, creeping, He work'd his way up near the throne, And, long before he took the keeping Of the king's conscience, lost his own. And taking every meteor fire That cross'd my path-way for his star! 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 pain, How little of the past would stay! How quickly all should melt awayAll-but that freedom of the mind Which hath been more than wealth to me; Those friendships in my boyhood twined, And kept till now unchangingly; And that dear home, that saving ark, Where Love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark, And comfortless, and stormy round! FANCY. THE more I've view'd this world, the more I've found Nor is it that her power can call up there A single charm that's not from Nature won, Vain was the man, and false as vain, Who said, were he ordain'd to run His long career of life again, He would do all that he had done.»Ah! 't is not thus the voice that dwells In sober birth-days speaks to me; Far otherwise-of time it tells Lavish'd unwisely, carelessly— Of counsel mock'd-of talents, made FONTENELLE.Si je recommençais ma carrière, je ferais tout ce que j'ai fait.. LOVE AND HYMEN. LOVE had a fever-ne'er could close To let him pine so were a sin- 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 pateut. 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, FROM THE FRENCH. Or all the men one meets about, There's none like Jack-he 's every where: At church-park-auction-dinner-routGo when and where you will, he's there. Try the West End, he's at your back— Meets you, like Eurus, in the East- As home he took his pensive way, ROMANCE. I HAVE a story of two lovers, fill'd With all the pure romance, the blissful sadness, And the sad, doubtful bliss, that ever thrill'd Two young and longing hearts in that sweet madnes But where to chuse the locale of my vision For two such perfect lovers, I know not. For though, by some unlucky miss, The drama, books, MS. and printed— Kean learn'd from Ned his cleverest parts, And Scott's last work by him was hinted. Childe Harold in the proofs he read, And, here and there, infused some soul in 'tNay, Davy's lamp, till seen by Ned, Had-odd enough-a dangerous hole in 't. 'T was thus, all doing and all knowing, Wit, statesman, boxer, chemist, singer, Whatever was the best pie going, In that Ned-trust him-had his finger. ON LIKE a snuffers, this loving old dame, By a destiny grievous enough, Though so oft she has snapp'd at the flame, Hath never caught more than the snuff. FRAGMENT OF A CHARACTER. HERE lies Factotum Ned at last: In which he had n't some small share. Whoe'er was in, whoc'er was out Whatever statesmen did or saidIf not exactly brought about, Was all, at least, contrived by Ned. With NAP if Russia went to war, T was owing, under Providence, To certain hints Ned gave the Czar(Vide his pamphlet-price six pence.) If France was beat at Waterloo As all, but Frenchmen, think she was To Ned, as Wellington well knew, Was owing half that day's applause. Then for his news-no envoy's bag E'er pass'd so many secrets through it— Scarcely a telegraph could wag Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it. Such tales he had of foreign plots, With foreign names one's ear to buzz inFrom Russia chefs and ofs in lots, From Poland owskis by the dozen. When GEORGE, alarm'd for England's creed, Psalmanazar. COUNTRY-DANCE AND QUADRILLE. A mincing thing, Mamselle Quadrille- Here, here, at least,» she cried, « though driven 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 me; And spinsters, even of forty-five, Upon their honours ne'er have known me: « Here, here, at least, I triumph still, « Here still I reign, and, fresh in charms, 'T was thus she said, as, 'mid the din Of footmen, and the town sedan, She lighted at the King's-lead 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 tripp'd up stairs, She in the cloak-room saw assemblingWhen, hark! some new outlandish airs, From the first fiddle, set her trembling. |