For if such are the braggarts that claim to be free, TO LADY HOLLAND. ON NAPOLEON'S LEGACY OF A SNUFF-BOX. GIFT of the Hero, on his dying day, To her, whose pity watch'd, for ever nigh; Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray, This relic lights up in her generous eye, Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to pay A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy. Paris, July, 1821. ROMANCE. I HAVE a story of two lovers, filled With all the pure romance, the blissful sadness, And the sad, doubtful bliss, that ever thrilled Two young and longing hearts in that sweet madness; But where to choose the locale of my vision In this wide, vulgar world-what real spot Can be found out, sufficiently Elysian For two such perfect lovers, I know not. Oh for some fair Formosa, such as he EPILOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF INA. LAST night, as lonely o'cr my fire I sat, Psalmanazar. From whose quick-opening folds of azure light 'Bless me!' I starting cried, 'what imp are you?' I viewed him, as he spoke his hose were blue, And mingle Love's blue brilliances with mine : For me she sits apart, from coxcombs shrinking, Looks wise-the pretty soul-and thinks she's thinking. Lectures on Memory, and assures her friends, "'Pon honour!-(mimics)-nothing can surpass the plan Of that professor-(trying to recollect)-psha! that memory-man- Here, curtseying low, I asked the blue-legged sprite 'Nay, there-(he cried)—there I am guiltless quite-- When no one waltzed, and none but monks could rhyme ; Blushed without art, and without culture smiled Simple as flowers, while yet unclassed they shone, And filled with Greek the garden's blushing borders?— To-morrow evening, when the lights burn blue, I'll comee-(pointing downwards)—you understand-till then adieu! And has the sprite been here? No-jests apart- Howe'er man rules in science and in art, The sphere of woman's glories is the heart. And, if our Muse have sketched with pencil true Whose soul, wrapped up in ties itself hath spun, THE SYLPH'S BALL. A SYLPH, as gay as ever sported Her figure through the fields of air, By an old swarthy Gnome was courted, And, strange to say, he won the fair. The annals of the oldest witch A pair so sorted could not show— But how refuse?-the Gnome was rich, The Rothschild of the world below; And Sylphs, like other pretty creatures, Learn from their mammas to consider Love as an auctioneer of features, Who knocks them down to the best bidder. Home she was taken to his mine A palace, paved with diamonds allAnd, proud as Lady Gnome to shine, Sent out her tickets for a ball. The lower world, of course, was there, And all the best; but of the upper The sprinkling was but shy and rare A few old Sylphids who loved supper. As none yet knew the wondrous lamp Of Davy, that renowned Aladdin, And the Gnome's halls exhaled a damp, Which accidents from fire were bad in ; The chambers were supplied with light By many strange but safe devices:Large fire-flies, such as shine at night Among the Orient's flowers and spices: Musical flint-mills-swiftly played By elfin hands-that, flashing round, Like some bright glancing minstrel maid, Gave out, at once, both light and sound; Bologna-stones, that drink the sun; Whose waves at night like wild-fire run, That by their own gay light were eat up.. 'Mong the few guests from Ether, came That wicked Sylph, whom Love we call My Lady knew him but by name, Some prudent Gnomes, 'tis said, apprised That he was coming, and no doubt Alarmed 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 feather: They looked like two young sunbeams, glancing, a 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 | At first the torch looked rather bluely In the gay waltz, from her bright eyes, Or from the lucciole, that spangled Her locks of jet-is all surmise. Certain it is, the ethereal girl A sign, they say, that no good boded- Did drop a spark, at some odd turn- Sylphs, Gnomes, and fiddlers, mixed ing, Which, by the waltz's windy whirl, Was fanned up into actual burning. Oh for that lamp's metallic gauze That curtain of protecting wire-Which 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 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 part— Found 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.' REMONSTRANCE. 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, Is for high-thoughted spirits, like thine, to command? Oh no, never dream it-while good men despair 1 Partique delêre Oscula 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 ; 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; Like the boughs of that laurel, by Delphi's decree, MY BIRTH-DAY. My birth-day!'-What a different | But oft, like Israel's incense, laid sound That word had in my youthful ears! And how, each time the day comes round, Less and less white its mark appears! When first our scanty years are told, Vain was the man, and false as vain, Who said, 'were he ordained to run His long career of life again, He would do all that he had done.'Ah! 'tis not thus the voice that dwells In sober birth-days speaks to me; Lavished unwisely, carelessly- Upon unholy, earthly shrinesOf nursing many a wrong desireOf wandering after Love too far, And taking every meteor fire That crossed my pathway for his star! 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 |