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 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! SCEPTICISM. ERE Psyche drank the cup that shed 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 Whom folks of late have use so ill, Having been chased from London down From London's gay and shining Though, like a Peri cast from Heaven, 'Though not a London Miss alive 'That forehead, where a light, un- Would now for her acquaintance own "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? But shall I live to see them shine?' 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, 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 '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, 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? 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 For English, at a single glance— A little gauche, 'tis fair to own, 'Alas, the change !-oh, -! And rather given to skips and With such a Foreign Secretary, An old English country-dance. Aided by foreign dancing-masters! 2 Another old English country-dance. Ah, did you know how blest we ranged, Ere vile Quadrille usurped the fiddleWhat looks in setting were exchanged, 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, 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 For slavish men who bend beneath 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. But power like his, that digs its grave Of laws that Genius' self had passed. As Jove, who forged the chain of Fate, 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. 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 If, loving pomp, he chose to buy 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- Reviewers, kuaves in brown, or blue 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 Oh, for some champion of his power, 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 |