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Now in his Palace of the West,
Sinking to slumber, the bright Day,
Liku a tir'd monarch fann'd to rest,
Mid the cool airs of Evening lay;
While round his couch's golden rim
The gaudy clouds, like courtiers, crept—
Struggling each other's light to dim,
And catch his last smile e'er he slept.
How gay, as o'er the gliding Thames
The golden eve its lustre pour’d,
Shone out the high-born knights and dames
Now group'd around that festal board;
A living mass of plumes and flowers,
As though they'd robb'd both birds and bower)—
A peopled rainbow, swarming through
With habitants of every hue;
While, as the sparkling juice of France
High in the crystal brimmers flow'd,
ch sunset ray that mix’d by chance
With the wine's sparkles, show'd
! How sunbeams may be taught to dance.

If not m written form exprest,
"Twas known, at least, to every guest,
That, though not bidden to parade
Their scenic powers in masquerade,
(A pastime little found to thrive
In the bleak fog of England's skies,
Where wit’s the thing we best contrive,
As masquerader's to disguise,)
It yet was hop’d—and well that hope
as answer'd by the young and gay—
That, in the toilet's task to-day,
Fancy should take her wildest scope;—
That the rapt milliner should be

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Let loose through fields of poesy,
The tailor, in inventive trance,
Up to the heights of Epic clamber,

And all the regions of Romance
Be ransack'd by the femme de chambre

Accordingly, with gay Sultanas,
Rebeccas, Sapphos, Roxalanas—
Circassian slaves whom Love would pay
Half his maternal realms to ransom;-
Young nuns, whose chief religion lay
In looking most profanely handsome;—
Muses in muslin—pastoral maids
With hats from the Arcade-ian shades,
And fortune-tellers, rich, 'twas plain,
As fortune-hunters form'd their train.

With these, and more such female groups,
Were mix'd no less fantastic troops
Of male exhibitors—all willing
To look, ev’n more than usual, killing;-
Beau tyrants, smock-fac’d braggadocios,
And brigands, charmingly ferocious;–
M. P.'s turn'd Turks, good Moslems then,
Who, last night, voted for the Greeks;
And Friars, staunch No-Popery men,
In close confab with Whig Caciques.

But where is she—the nymph, whom late
We left before her glass delaying,
Like Eve, when by the lake she sate,
In the clear wave her charms surveying,
And saw in that first glassy mirror
The first fair face that lur'd to error.
“Where is she,” ask'st thou?—watch all looks
As cent' ing to one point they bear,
Like sun-flowers by the sides of brooks,
Turn'd to the sun–and she is there.
Ev’n in disguise, Oh never doubt
By her own light you'd track he: out:
As when the moon, close shawl'd in fog,
Steals as she thinks through heaven incog,
Though hid herself, some sidelong ray,
At every step, detects her way.

So pledge me a bumper—your sages profound
May be blest, if they will, on their own patent plan

But as we are not sages, why—send the cup round-
We must only be happy the best way we can.

A reward by some king was once offer'd, we're told,
To whoe'er could invent a new bliss for mankind;
But talk of new pleasures —give me but the old,
And I’ll leave your inventors all new ones they
Or should I, in quest of fresh realms of bliss,
Set sail in the pinnace of Fancy some day,
Let the rich rosy sea I embark on be this,
And such eyes as we've here be the stars of my way!
In the meantime, a bumper—your Angels, on high,
May have pleasures unknown to life's limited span;
But, as we are not Angels, why—let the flask fly-
We must only be happy all ways that we can

Now nearly fled was sunset's light,
Leaving but so much of its beam
As gave to objects, late so bright,
The colouring of a shadowy dream;
And there was still where Day had set
A flush that spoke him loth to die—
A last link of his ghory yet,
Binding together earth and sky.
Say, why is it that twilight best
Becomes even brows the loveliest ?
That dimness, with its soft’ning touch,
Can bring out grace, unfelt before,
And charms we ne'er can see too mush,
When seen but half enchant the more *
Alas, it is that every joy
In fulness finds its worst alloy,
And half a bliss, but hop'd or guess'd,
Is sweeter than the whole possess'd :-
That Beauty, when least shown upon,
A creature most ideal grows;
And “here's no light from moon or sun
I so that Imagination throws;–

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''n England the parti’ion of this onera of Rossiniowas transferred *the story of Peter'the Hermit; by which means the indecorum of

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such names as “Moise,” “Pharaon,” &c. to the dances as ted from it (as was done in Paris) has been avoidod

While of that doubtful genus, “dressy men,”
The male was thought a first-rate specimen.
Such Savans, too, as wish'd to trace
The manners, haloits, of this race—
To know what rank (if rank at all)
'Mong reas'ning things to them should fall—
What sort of notions heaven imparts
To high-built heads and tight-lac'd hearts,
And how far Soul, which Plato says,
Abhors restraint, can act in stays—
Might now, if gifted with discerning,
Find opportunities of learning:
As these two creatures—from their pout
And frown, 'twas plain—had just fall’n out;
And all their little thoughts, of course,
Were stirring in full fret and force:—
Like mites, through microscope espied,
A world of nothings magnified.

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These gay things, born but to quadrille,
The circle of their doom fulfil–
(That dancing doom, whose law decrees
That they should live, on the alert toe,
A life of ups-and-downs. like keys
Of Broadwood's in a long concerto:—)
While thus the fiddle's spell, within,
Calls up its realm of restless sprites,
Without, as if some Mandarin
Were holding there his Feast of Lights,
Lamps of all hues, from walks and bowers
Broke on the eye, like kindling flowers,
Till, budding into light, each tree
Bore its su... fruit of brilliancy.

Here shone a garden—lamps all o'er
As though the Spirits of the Air
Had tak’n it in their heads to pour
A shower of summer ineteors there;—
While here a lighted shrubb'ry led
To a small lake that sleeping lay,
Cradled in foliage, but, o'er-head,
Open to heaven's sweet breath and ray;
While round its rim there burning stood
Lamps, with young flowers beside them bedden,
That shrunk from such warm neighbourhood;
And, looking bashful in the flood,
Blush'd to behold themselves so wedded

Hither, to this embower'd retreat,
Fit but for nights so still and sweet,
Nights, such as Eden's calm recall
In its first lonely hour, when all
So silent is, below, on high,
That if a star falls down the sky,
You almost think you hear it fall–
Hither, to this recess, a few,
To shun the dancers' wild'ring noise,
And give an hour, ere night-time flew,
To Music's more ethereal joys,
Came with their voices—ready all
As Echo, waiting for a call—
In hymn or ballad, dirge or glee,
To weave their mingling ininstrelsy.

And, first, a dark-ey'd nymph, array'd-
Like her, whom Art hath deathless made,
Bright Mona Lisa f—with that braid
Of hair across the brow, and one
Small gem that in the centre shone—
With face, too, in its form resembling
Da Vinci's Beauties—the dark eyes,
Now lucid, as through crystal trembling,
Now soft, as if suffus'd with sighs—
Her lute, that hung beside her, took,
And, bending o'er it with shy look,
More beautiful, in shadow thus,
Than when with life most luminous,
Pass'd her light finger o'er the chords,
And sung to them these mournful words.

SON G. BRING hither, bring thy lute, while day is dying Here will I lay me, and list to thy song; Should tones of other days mix with its sighing, Tones of a light heart, now banish'd so long, Chase them away—they bring but pain, And let thy theme be woe again.

Sing on, thou mournful lute—day is fast going,
Soon will its light from thy chords die away;
One little gleam in the west is still glowing,
When that hath vanish'd, farewell to thy lay.
Mark, how it fades!—see, it is fled '
Now, sweet lute, be thou, too, dead.

The group, that late, in garb of Greeks, Sung their light chorus o'er the tide— Forms, such as up the wooded creeks

* It is hardly necessary to remind the reader that this Duet is a parody ci the often-trauslated and parodied ode of Horace, “Douec gratus eram tibi,” &c

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But say, while light these songs resound,
What means that buz of whisp'ring round,
From lip to lip—as if the Power
Of Mystery, in this gay hour,
Had thrown some secret (as we fling
Nuts among children) to that ring
Of rosy, restless lips, to be
Thus scrambled for so wantonly
And, mark ye, still as each reveals
The mystic news, her hearer steals
A look tow’rds yon enchanted chair,
Where, like the Lady of the Masque,
A nymph, as exquisitely fair
As Love himself for bride coulc ask,
Sič, blushing deep, as if aware
Of the wing'd secret circling there.
Who is this nymph 2 and what, oh Muse
What, in the name of all odd things
That woman's restless brain pursues,
What mean these mystic whisperings.

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And if, for maid of heavenly birth,
A young Duke's proffer'd heart and hand
Be things worth waiting for on earth,
Both are, this hour, at ner command
To-night, in yonder half-lit shade,
For love concerns expressly meant,
The fond proposa' first was made,
And love and :- ence blush’d consent.
Parents and friends (all here, as Jews,
Enchanters, housemaids, Turks, Hindoos,)
Have heard, approv’d, and blest the tie;
And now, hadst thou a poet’s eye,
Thou might'st behold in th’ air, above
That brilliant brow, triumphant Love,
Holding, as if to drop it down
Gently upon her curls, a crown
Of Ducal shape—but, oh, such gems
Pilfer'd from Peri diadems,
And set in gold like that which shines
To deck the Fairy of the Mines:
In short, a crown all glorious—such as
Love orders when he makes a Duchess.

But see, ’tis morn in heaven; the Sun
Up the bright orient hath begun
To canter his immortal team :
And, though not yet arriv'd in sight, -
His leader's nostrils send a steam
Of radiance forth, so rosy bright
As makes their onward path all light
What's to be done * if Sol will be
So deuced early, so must we ;
And when the day thus shines outright, "
Ev’n dearest friends must bid good night.
So, farewell, scene of mirth and masking,
Now almost a by-gone tale;
Beauties, late in lamp-light basking,
Now, by daylight, dim and pale;
Harpers, yawning o'er your harps,
Scarcely knowing flats from sharps;
Mothers who, while bor'd you keep
Time by nodding, nod to sleep;
Heads of air, that stood last night
Crépé, crispy, and uprignt,
But have now, alas, one sees, a
Leaning like the tower of Pisa-
Fare ye well—thus sinks away
All that's mighty, all that's orignt;
Tyre and Sidon had their day,
And ev'n a Ball—has but its night!


V AR IET Y. Ask what prevailing, pleasing power Allures the sportive, wandering bee To roam, untired, from flower to flower, He'll tell you, 'tis variety.

Look Nature round, her features trace,
Her seasons, all her changes see;

And own, upon Creation's face,
The greatest charm's variety

For me, ye gracious lowers above Still let me roam, unfix’d and free;

In all things, but the nymph I love, I'll change, and saste variety.

But, Patty, not a world of charms
Could e'er estrange my heart from thee;-

No, Let me ever seek those arms
There still I'll find variety.


If I swear by that eve, you'll allow, Its look is so shifting and new,

That the oath I might take on it now The very next blance would undo.

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