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Some potentate-or royal or sereno-
With Kent's gay grace, or sapient Gloster's mien,
Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush
Migłt once have been mistaken for a blush.
From where the garb just leaves the bosom free,
That spot where hearts were once supposed to be ;*
Round all the confines of the yielded waist,
The stranger's hand may wander undisplaced;
The lady's in return may grasp as much
As princely paunches ofier to her touch.
Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip,
One hand reposing on the royal hip;
The other to the shoulder no less royal
Ascending with affection truly loyal !
Thus front to front the partners move or stand,
The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand;
And all in turn may follow in their rank,
The Earl of Asterisk, and Lady-Blank;
Sir-Such-a-one--with those of fashion's host,
For whose blest surnames-vide Morning Post”
(Or if for that impartial print too late,
Search Doctors' Commons six months from my date).
Thus all and each, in movements swift or slow,
The genial contact gently undergo;
Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk,
If “nothing follows all this palming work?”+
True, honest Mirza !-you may trust my rhyme
Something does follow at a fitter time;
The breast thus publicly resign'd to man
In private may resist him-

-if it can.
O ye who loved our grandmothers of yore,
Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more!
And thou, my Prince ! whose sovereign taste and will
It is to love the lovely beldames still !
Thou ghost of Queensbury! whose judging sprite
Satan may spare to peep a single night,
Pronounce—if ever in your days of bliss
Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this?
To teach the young ideas how to rise,
Flush in the cheek, and languish in the eyes;
Rush to the heart, and lighten through the frame,
With half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame :
For prurient nature still will storm the breast
Who, tempted thus, can answer for the rest ?

But ye—who never felt a single thought

For what our morals are to be, or ought; ** We have sharged all that," says the Mock Doctor-'tis all gone-Asmodeus knows where. After all, it is of no great importance how women's hearts are disposed of; they have nature's privilege to distribute them as absurdly as possible. But thero are also some men with hearts so thoroughly bad, as to remind us of those phenomena often mentioned in naturai history ; viz, a mass of solid stone-only to be opened by forca--and wben divided, you find a toad in the centre, lively, and with the reputation of being

+ In Turkey a pertinent, here an impertinent and superfluous, question-literally put, as in the text, by a Persian to Morier, on seeing a waltz in Pera, Fide Morier's Travele

venomous.

Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap,
Say-would you make those beauties quite so chean.
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied,
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side,
Where were the rapture then to clasp the form
From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm !
At once love's most endearing thought resign,
To press the hand so press'd by none but thine ;
To gaze upon that eye which never met
Another's ardent look without regret ;
Approach the lip which all, without restraint,
Come near enough-if not to touch-to taint;
If such thou lovest-love her then no more,
Or give-like her-caresses to a score ;
Her mind with these is gone, and with it go
The little left behind it to bestow.

Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blasphemo?
Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme.
Terpsichore, forgive !-at every ball
My wife now waltzes and my daughters shall;
My son—(or stop—'tis needless to inquire -
These little accidents should ne'er transpire;
Some ages hence our genealogic tree
Will wear as green a bough for him as me)
Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends,
Grandsons for me-in heirs to all his friends.

TO TIME.
TIME ! on whose arbitrary wing

The varying hours must flag or fly,
Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,

But drag or drive us on to die-
Hail, thou ! who on my birth bestow'd

Those boons to all that know thee known;
Yet better I sustain thy load,

For now I bear the weight alone.
I would not one fond heart should share

The bitter moments thou hast given ;
And pardon thee, since thou couldst sparo

All that I loved, to peace or heaven.
To them be joy or rest, on mo

Thy future ills shall press in vain :
I nothing owe but years to thee,

A debt already paid in pain.
Yet even that pain was some relief;

It felt, but still forgot thy power :
The active agony of grief

Retards, but never counts the hour.

149

IDOO ART NOT TALSE, BUT THOU ART FICKLE.
In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight

Would soon subsido from swift to słow;
Thy cloud could overcast the light,

But could not add a night to woe;
For then, however drear and dark,

My soul was suited to thy sky;
One star alone shot forth a spark

To prove thee not-Eternity.
That beam bath sunk, and now thou art

A blank,-a thing to count and curse,
Through each dull tedious trifling part,

Which all regret, yet all rehearse.
One scene even thou canst not deform;

The limit of thy sloth or speed,
When future wanderers bear the storm

Which we shall sleep too sound to heed :
And I can smile to think how weak

Thine efforts shortly shall be shown,
When all the vengeance thou canst wreak

Must fall upon-a nameless stone.

THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART FICKLE.

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle,

To those thyself so fondly sought ;
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle

Are doubly bitter from that thought:
'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest,
Too well thou lov'st-too soon thou leavest.
The wholly false the heart despises,

And spurns deceiver and deceit;
But she who not a thought disguises,

Whose love is as sincere as sweet,
When she can change who loved so truly,
It feels what mine has felt so newly.
To dream of joy and wake to sorrow,

Is doom'd to all who love or live;
And if, when conscious on the morrow,

We scarce our fancy can forgive,
That cheated us in slumber only,
To leave the waking soul more lonely.
What must they feel whom no false vision,

But truest, tenderest passion warm'd;
Sincere, but swift in sad transition,

As if a dream alone had charm'd ?
Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming,
And all thy change can be but dmaning!

REMEMBER HIM, WHOM PASSION'S POWER.

REMEMBER him, whom passion's power

Severely, deeply, vainly proved :
Remember thou that dangerous hour

When neither fell, though both were loved.

That yielding breast, that melting eye,

Too much invited to be bless'd;
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,

The wilder wish reproved, repress'd.
Oh ! let me feel that all I lost

But saved thee all that conscience fears ;
And blush for every pang it cost

To spare the vain remorse of years.
Yet think of this when many a tongue,

Whose busy accents whisper blame,
Would do the heart that loved thee wrong,

And brand a nearly blighted name.

Think that, whate'er to others, thou

Hast seen each selfish thought subdued :
I bless thy purer soul even now,

in midnight solitude.

Even now,

Oh, God! that we had met in time,

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free;
When thou hadst loved without a crime,

And I been less unworthy thee.

Far may thy days, as heretofore,

From this our gaudy world be pass'd!
And that too bitter moment o'er,

Oh ! may such trial be thy last !

This heart, alas! perverted long,

Itself destroy'd, might thee destroy ;
To meet thee in the glittering throng,

Would wake Presumption's hope of joy.

Then to the things whose bliss or woe,

Like mine, is wild and worthless all,
That world resign-such scenes forego,

Where those who feel must surely fall,

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,

Thy soul from long seclusion pure ;
From what even here hath pass'd, may gusan

What there thy bosom must endure.

Oh ! pardon that imploring tear,

Since not by Virtue shed in vain, My frenzy drew from eyes so dear;

For me they shall not weep again. Though long and mournful must it be,

The thought that we no more may meet; Yet I deserve the stern decree,

And almost deem the sentence sweet. Still, had I loved thee less, my heart

Had then less sacrificed to thine ; Et felt not half so much to part,

As if its guilt had made thee mine.

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