My poor comparisons must needs be teeming
With earthly likenesses, for here the night
Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving
Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey raving.
'T was the archangel Michael: all men know
The make of angels and archangels, since
There's scarce a scribbler has not one to show,
From the fiends' leader to the angels' prince.
There also are some altar-pieces, though
I really can't say that they much evince
One's inner notions of immortal spirits;
But let the connoisseurs explain their merits.
Michael flew forth in glory and in good,
A goodly work of Him from whom all glory And good arise: the portal pass'd—he stood
Before him the young cherubs and saints hoary—
(I say young, begging to be understood
By looks, not years, and should be very sorry
To state, they were not older than St. Peter,
But merely that they seem'd a little sweeter).
The cherubs and the saints bow'd down before
That archangelic hierarch, the first
Of essences angelical, who wore
The aspect of a god; but this ne'er nursed Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core
No thought, save for his Maker's service, durst
Intrude, however glorified and high;
He knew him but the viceroy of the sky.
He and the sombre silent Spirit met—
They knew each other both for good and ill; Such was their power that neither could forget His former friend and future foe; but still There was a high, immortal, proud regret
In either's eye, as if 't were less their will Than destiny to make the eternal years
Their date of war, and their champ clos the spheres.
But here they were in neutral space: we know
From Job, that Satan hath the power to pay
A heavenly visit thrice a year or so;
And that "the sons of God", like those of clay,
Must keep him company; and we might show
From the same book, in how polite a way
The dialogue is held between the powers
Of Good and Evil-but 't would take up hours.
And this is not a theologic tract,
To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic,
If Job be allegory or a fact,
But a true narrative; and thus I pick
From out the whole but such and such an act,
As sets aside the slightest thought of trick. 'Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion,
And accurate as any other vision.
Published in 1813 and described by its author
as an "Apostrophic Hymn".
USE of the many-twinkling feet! whose charms
Are now extended up from legs to arms;
Terpsichore!-too long misdeem'd a maid-
Reproachful term-bestow'd but to upbraid-
Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine,
The least a vestal of the virgin Nine.
Far be from thee and thine the name of prude;
Mock'd, yet triumphant; sneer'd at, unsubdued;
Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly,
If but thy coats are reasonably high;
Thy breast, if bare enough, requires no shield:
Dance forth-sans armour thou shalt take the field,
And own-impregnable to most assaults,
Thy not too lawfully begotten "Waltz".
Hail, nimble nymph! to whom the young huzzar, The whisker'd votary of waltz and war,
His night devotes, despite of spurs and boots;
A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his brutes:
Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz! beneath whose banners
A modern hero fought for modish manners;
On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's fame,
Cock'd, fired, and miss'd his man-but gain'd his aim:
Hail, moving muse! to whom the fair one's breast
Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest.
Oh, for the flow of Busby or of Fitz,
The latter's loyalty, the former's wits,
To "energize the object I pursue",
And give both Belial and his dance their due!
Imperial Waltz! imported from the Rhine
(Famed for the growth of pedigree and wine),
Long be thine import from all duty free,
And hock itself be less esteem'd than thee;
In some few qualities alike-for hock
Improves our cellar-thou our living stock.
The head to hock belongs-thy subtler art
Intoxicates alone the heedless heart:
Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims,
And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs.
O Germany! how much to thee we owe,
As heaven-born Pitt can testify below.
Ere cursed confederation made thee France's,
And only left us thy d-d debts and dances!
Of subsidies and Hanover bereft,
We bless thee still-for George the Third is left!
Of kings the best, and last not least in worth,
For graciously begetting George the Fourth.
To Germany, and highnesses serene,
Who owe us millions-don't we owe the queen?
To Germany, what owe we not besides?
So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides:
Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood,
Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud;
Who sent us-so be pardon'd all our faults—
A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen-and Waltz.
But peace to her, her emperor and diet,
Though now transferr'd to Bonaparte's "fiat!"
Back to thy theme-O Muse of motion! say,
How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way?
Borne on thy breath of hyperborean gales From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yet had mails), Ere yet unlucky Fame, compelled to creep To snowy Gottenburg was chill'd to sleep; Or, starting from her slumbers, deign'd arise, Heligoland, to stock thy mart with lies;
While unburnt Moscow yet had news to send,
Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend.
She came-Waltz came-and with her certain sets
Of true despatches, and as true gazettes:
Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch,
Which Moniteur nor Morning Post can match;
And, almost crush'd beneath the glorious news,
Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's;
One envoy's letters, six composers' airs,
And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs:
Meiner's four volumes upon womankind,
Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind;
Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and, to back it,
Of Heynè, such as should not sink the packet.
Fraught with this cargo, and her fairest freight,
Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate,
The welcome vessel reach'd the genial strand,
And round her flock'd the daughters of the land.
Not decent David, when, before the ark,
His grand pas-seul excited some remark,
Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought
The knight's fandango friskier than it ought;
Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread,
Her nimble feet danced off another's head;
Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck,
Display'd so much of leg, or more of neck,
Than thou ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon
Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune!
To you, ye husbands of ten years whose brows
Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse;
To you of nine years less, who only bear
The budding sprouts of those that you
With added ornaments around them roll'd
Of native brass, or law-awarded gold:
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