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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.

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,

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
more?

This, this it is that pays alone

The ills of all life's former trackShine 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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SCEPTICISM.

ERE Psyche drank the cup that shed
Immortal life into her soul,
Some evil spirit poured, 'tis said,
One drop of doubt into the bowl-

Which, mingling darkly with the

stream,

To Psyche's lips she knew not why

Made even that blessed nectar seem

As though its sweetness soon would

die.

Oft, in the very arms of Love,

A chill came o'er her heart-a fear That death would, even yet, remove Her spirit from that happy sphere, 'Those sunny ringlets,' she exclaimed, Twining them round her snowy fingers

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 Qua-
drille-

Having been chased from London down
To that last, humblest haunt of all
She used to grace-a country-town-
Went 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

'That forehead, where a light, un-
named,
Unknown on earth, for ever lingers—And spinsters even of forty-five,

Would now for her acquaintance own
me;

"Those lips, through which I feel the breath

Of heaven itself, whene'er they

sever

Oh! are they mine beyond all death

Mine own, hereafter and for ever?
'Smile not-I know that starry brow,
Those ringlets and bright lips of thine,
Will always shine as they do now-

But shall I live to see them shine?'
In vain did Love say, 'Turn thine eyes
On all that sparkles round thee here-
Thou'rt now in heaven, where nothing
dies,

And in these arms-what canst thou fear?'

In vain-the fatal drop, that stole

Into that cup's immortal treasure, Had lodged its bitter near her soul, And gave a tinge to every pleasure. And though there ne'er was rapture given

Like Psyche's with that radiant boy, Hers is the only face in heaven

That wears a cloud amid its joy.

Upon their honours ne'er have known

me:

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 saw assem
bling-

When, hark! some new outlandish airs, | Endangering thereby many a gown, And playing oft the devil with flounces.

From the first fiddle, set her trembling.

She stops-she listens-can it be?
Alas in vain her ears would 'scape it-
It is Di tanti palpiti,'

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As plain as English bow can scrape it.

'Courage!' however, in she goes, With her best sweeping country

grace;

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 brau 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

where.

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-plateSo still, you'd hardly think 'twas going.

Full fronting her stood Country-Dance
A 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,

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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;

An old English country-dance.

Aided by foreign dancing-masters!

2 Another old English country-dance.

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Ah, did you know how blest we ranged, Ere vile Quadrille usurped the fiddleWhat looks in setting were exchanged,

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What tender words in down the middle!

How many a couple, like the wind, Which nothing in its course controls, Left time and chaperons far behind,

And gave a loose to legs and souls!

How matrimony throve-ere stopped By this cold, silent, foot-coquettingHow charmingly one's partner popped The important question in poussetteing!

'While now, alas, no sly advances—

No marriage hints - all goes on badly: "Twixt Parson Malthus and French dances,

We girls are at a discount sadly. 'Sir William Scott (now Baron Stowell) Declares not half so much is made

By licences and he must know wellSince vile Quadrilling spoiled the trade.'

She ceased-tears fell from every MissShe now had touched the true

pathetic :

:-

One such authentic fact as this,
Is worth whole volumes thcoretic.

Instant the cry was 'Country-Dance!' And the maid saw, with brightening face,

The steward of the night advance,

And lead her to her birthright place.

The fiddles, which awhile had ceased, Now tuned again their summons sweet,

And for one happy night at least

Old England's triumph was complete.

SONG.

FOR THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY.

To those we love we've drank to-night; But now attend, and stare not, While I the ampler lists recite

Of those for whom-we care not. For royal men, howe'er they frown,

If on their fronts they bear not
That noblest gem that decks a crown-
The People's Love-we care not.

For slavish men who bend beneath
A despot yoke, and dare not
Pronounce the will, whose very breath
Would rend its links-we care not.

For priestly men who covet sway

And wealth, though they declare not; Who point, like finger-posts, the way They never go--we care not. For martial men who on their sword, Howe'er it conquers, wear not The pledges of a soldier's word,

Redeemed and pure-we care not. For legal men who plead for wrong,

And, though to lies they swear not, Are not more honest than the throng Of those who do-we care not.

For courtly men who feed upon

The land, like grubs, and spare not The smallest leaf where they can sun Their reptile limbs-we care not. For wealthy men who keep their mines In darkness hid, and share not The paltry ore with him who pines In honest want- we care not.

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But power like his, that digs its grave
With its own sceptre, could not last;
So Genius' self became the slave

Of laws that Genius' self had passed.

As Jove, who forged the chain of Fate,
Was ever after doomed to wear it;
His nods, his struggles, all too late-

Qui semel jussit, semper paret.'

To check young Genius' proud career, The slaves, who now his throne invaded,

Made Criticism his Prime Vizir,

And from that hour his glories faded.
Tied down in Legislation's school,
Afraid of even his own ambition,
His very victories were by rule,
And he was great but by permission.
His most heroic deeds-the same
That dazzled, when spontaneous
actions-

Now, done by law, seemed cold and

tame,

And shorn of all their first attractions.

If he but stirred to take air,

Instant the Vizir's Council sat

'Good Lord! your Highness can't go

there

Bless us! your Highness can't do
that.'

If, loving pomp, he chose to buy
Rich jewels for his diadem-
'The taste was bad-the price was
high-

A flower were simpler than a gem.' To please them if he took to flowers'What trifling, what unmeaning things!

Fit for a woman's toilet hours,

But not at all the style for kings.' If, fond of his domestic sphere,

He played no more the rambling comet

'A dull, good sort of man, 'twas clear; But as for great or brave-far from it.' Did he then look o'er distant oceans, For realms more worthy to enthrone him?

'Saint Aristotle, what wild notions! Serve a "Ne exeat regno` on him.'

At length-their last and worst to do-
They round him placed a guard of
watchmen-

Reviewers, kuaves in brown, or blue
Turned up with yellow-chiefly
Scotchmen-

To dog his footsteps all about,

Like those in Longwood's prisongrounds,

Who at Napoleon's heels rode out,

For fear the Conqueror should break
bounds.

Oh, for some champion of his power,
Some ultra spirit, to set free,
As erst in Shakspeare's sovereign hour,
The thunders of his royalty!—

To vindicate his ancient line,

The first, the true, the only one Of Right eternal and divine

That rules beneath the blessed sun!

To crush the rebels, that would cloud

His triumphs with restraint or blame, And, honouring even his faults, aloud Re-echo Vive le Roi! quand

même

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