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And heart, where'er thy footsteps move, Shall beat when they come nigh thee.

Now in his Palace of the West,

Sinking to slumber, the bright Day, Like 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, creptStruggling 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,

Each sunset ray that mix'd by chance
With the wine's sparkles, show'd

1 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
Was 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
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'ring 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 her 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.

But not in dark disguise to-night
Hath our young heroine veil'd her light:-.
For see, she walks the earth, Love's own,
His wedded bride, by holiest vow
Pledg'd in Olympus, and made knowu
To mortals by the type which now
Hangs glitt'ring on her snowy brow
That butterfly, mysterious trinket,
Which means the Soul (tho' few would think it1)
And sparkling thus on brow so white,
Tells us we've Psyche here to-night

But hark! some song hath caught her ears-
And, lo, how pleas'd, as though she'd ne'er
Heard the Grand Opera of the Spheres,

Her goddess-ship approves the air;
And to a mere terrestrial strain,
Inspir'd by nought but pink champagne.
Her butterfly as gaily nods

As though she sat with all her train

At some great Concert of the Gods,
With Phoebus, leader-Jove director
And half the audience drunk with nectar.

From a male group the carol came

A few gay youths, whom round the board The last-tried flask's superior fame

Had lur'd to taste the tide it pour'd;
And one, who, from his youth and lyre,
Seem'd grandson to the Teian sire,
Thus gaily sung, while, to his song,
Replied in chorus the gay throng :—

SONG.

SOME mortals there may be, so wise, or so fine
As in evenings like this no enjoyment to see:
But, as I'm not particular-wit, love, and wine,

Are for one night's amusement sufficient for me
Nay-humble and strange as my tastes may appear-
If driv'n to the worst, I could manage, thank Heaven,
To put up with eyes such as beam round me here,
And such wine as we're sipping, six days out of seven
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 roundWe 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 find
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 flyWe 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 glory 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 much,
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 there's no light from moon or sun I that Imagination throws;

It is, alas, that Fancy shrinks
Ev'n from a bright reality,
And turning inly, feels and thinks
Fa heav'nlier things than e'er will be.

Such was th' effect of twilight's hour

On the fair groups that, round and round, From glade to grot, from bank to bow'r, Now wander'd through this fairy ground, And thus did Fancy-and champagne

Work on the sight their dazzling spells, Till nymphs that look'd, at noon-day, plain, Now brighton'd, in the gloom, to belles; And the brief interval of time,

'Twixt after dinner and before, T: dowagers brought back their prime, And shed a halo round two-score.

Meanwhile, new pastimes for the eye,
The ear, the fancy, quick succeed;
And now along the waters fly

Light gondoles, of Venetian breed,
With knights and dames, who calm reclin'd
Lisp out love-sonnets as they glide-
Astonishing old Thames to find

Such doings on his moral tide.

So bright was still that tranquil river,
With the last shaft from Daylight's quiver,
That many a group, in turn were seen
Embarking on its wave serene;
And, 'mong the rest, in chorus gay,

A band of mariners, from th' isles
Of sunny Greece, all song and smiles,
As smooth they floated, to the play
of their oar's cadence, sung this lay :-

TRIO.

OUR home is on the sea, boy,
Our home is on the sea;
When Nature gave

The ocean-wave,

She mark'd it for the Free. WWhatever storms befall, boy, Whatever storms befall,

The island bark

Is Freedom's ark,

And floats her safe through all.

Behold yon sea of isles, boy,
Behold yon sea of isles,
Where ev'ry shore

Is sparkling o'er.

With Beauty's richest smiles.

For us hath Freedom claim'd, boy,
For us hath Freedom claim'd

Those ocean-nests
Where valour rests
His eagle wing untam'd.

And shall the Mosiem dare, boy,
And shall the Moslem dare,
While Grecian hand
Can wield a brand,
To plant his Crescent there?
No-by our fathers, no, boy,
No, by the Cross we show-
From Maina's rills

To Thracia's hills

All Greece re-echoes "No!'

Like pleasant thoughts that o'er the mind A minute come, and go again,

Ev'n so, by snatches, in the wind,

Was caught and lost that choral strain, Now full, now faint upon the ear, As the bark floated far or near.

In England the partition of this opera of Rossini was transferred to the story of Peter the Hermit; by which meas the indecorum of

At length, when, lost, the closing note
Had down the waters died along,
Forth from another fairy boat,
Freighted with music, came this song:-

SONG.

SMOOTHLY flowing through verdant vales,
Gentle river, thy current runs,
Shelter'd safe from winter gales,

Shaded cool from summer suns.
Thus our Youth's sweet moments glide,
Fenc'd with flow'ry shelter round;
No rude tempest wakes the tide,
All its path is fairy ground.

But, fair river, the day will come,

When, woo'd by whisp'ring groves in vain, Thou'lt leave those banks, thy shaded home, To mingle with the stormy main.

And thou, sweet Youth, too soon wilt pass
Into the world's unshelter'd sea,
Where, once thy wave hath mix'd, alas,
All hope of peace is lost for thee

Next turn we to the gay saloon
Resplendent as a summer noon,

Where, 'neath a pendent wreath of lights,
A Zodiac of flowers and tapers-
(Such as in Russian ball-rooms sheds
Its glory o'er young dancers' heads)——
Quadrille performs her mazy rites,
And reigns supreme o'er slides and capers ;-
Working to death each opera strain,

As, with a foot that ne'er reposes, She jigs through sacred and profane,

From "Maid and Magpie" up to " Moses " Wearing out tunes as fast as shoes,

Till fagg'd Rossini scarce respires;

Till Mayerbeer for mercy sues,

And Weber at her foot expires.

And now the set hath ceas'd-the bows
Of fiddlers taste a brief repose,
While light along the painted floor,

Arm within arm, the couples stray,
Talking their stock of nothings o'er,
Till-nothing's left, at last, to say.
When, lo!-most opportunely sent-
Two Exquisites, a he and she,
Just brought from Dandyland, and meant
For Fashion's grand Menagerie,
Enter'd the room-and scarce were there
When all flock'd round them, glad to stare
At any monsters, any where.

Some thought them perfect, to their tastes
While others hinted that the waists
(That in particular of the he thing)
Left far too ample room for breathing.
Whereas, to meet these critics' wishes,
The isthmus there should be so small,
That Exquisites, at last, like fishes,

Must manage not to breathe at all.
The female (these same critics said,)
Though orthodox from toe to chin,
Yet lack'd that spacious width of head
To hat of toadstool much akin-
That build of bonnet, whose extent
Should, like a doctrine of dissent,
Puzzle church-doors to let it in

However sad as 'twas, no doubt,
That nymph so smart should go about,
With head unconscious of the place
It ought to fill in Infinite Space-
Yet all allow'd that, of her kino,

A prettier show 'twas hard to find,

giving such names as "Moise," "Pharaon," &c. to the dances so lected from it (as was done in Paris) has been avoided

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, habits, 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.

But mild the vent such beings seek,
The tempest of their souls to speak:
As Opera swains to fiddles sigh,
To fiddles fight, to fiddles die,
Even so this tender couple set
Their well-bred woes to a Duet.

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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 fu.. 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 meteors 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 beddou, 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 minstrelsy.

And, first, a dark-ey'd nymph, array'd-
Like her, whom Art hath deathless made,
Bright Mona Lisaf-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.

SONG.

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.

1

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

The celebrated portrait by Leonardo da Vinci, which he is vali to have occupied four years in painting.—Fusari, vul. vL

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SONG AND TRIO.

On one of those sweet nights that oft
Their lustre o'er the Ægean fling,
Beneath my casement, low and soft,

I heard a Lesbian lover sing; And, list'ning both with ear and thought, These sounds upon the night-breeze caught"Oh, happy as the gods is he, "Who gazes at this hour on thee!"

The song was one by Sappho sung,

In the first love-dreams of her lyre, When words of passion from her tongue Fell like a shower of living fire. And still, at close of ev'ry strain, I heard these burning words again"Oh, happy as the gods is he, "Who listens at this hour to thee!"

Once more to Mona Lisa turn'd

Each asking eye-nor turn'd in vain ; Though the quick, transient blush that burn'd Bright o'er her cheek, and died again, Show'd with what inly shame and fear Was utter'd what all lov'd to hear. Yet not to sorrow's languid lay

Did she her lute-song now devote;
But thus, with voice that, like a ray

Of southern sunshine, seem'd to float-
So rich with climate was each note-
Call'd up in every heart a dream
Of Italy, with this soft theme:-

SONG.

Oн, where art thou dreaming,
On land, or on sea?

In my lattice is gleaming

The watch-light for thee;
And this fond heart is glowing
To welcome thee home,

And the night is fast going,
But thou art not come :
No, thou com'st not!

"Tis the time when night-flowers
Should wake from their rest;
'Tis the hour of all hours,

When the lute singeth best. But the flowers are half sleeping Till thy glance they see! And the hush'd lute is keeping Its music for thee.

Yet, thou com'st not!

Scarce had the last word left her lip,
When a light, boyish form, with trip
Fantastic, up the green walk came,
Prank'd in gay vest, to which the flare
Of every lamp he pass'd, or blue,
Or green, or crimson, lent its hue;
As though a live cameleon's skin
He had despoil'd to robe him in.
A zone he wore of clatt'ring shells,
And from his lofty cap, where snone
A peacock's plume, there dangled bells
That rung as he came dancing on.

Close after him, a page-in dress
And shape, his miniature express-
An ample basket, fill'd with store
Of toys and trinkets, laughing bore;
Till, having reach'd this verdant seat,
He laid it at his master's feet,
Who, half in speech and half in song,
Chaunted this invoice to the throng:-

SONG.

WHO'LL buy?-'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?-
We've toys to suit all ranks and ages;
Besides our usual fools' supply,

We've lots of playthings. too, for sages.
For reasoners, here's a jugglers cup,
That fullest seems when nothing's in it;
And nine-pins set, like systems, up,

To be knock'd down the following minute.
Who'll buy?'tis folly's shop, who'll buy?
Gay caps we've here of foolscap make,
For bards to wear in dog-day weather;
Or bards the bells alone may take,

And leave to wits the cap and feather. Tetotums we've for patriots got,

Who court the mob with antics humble;
Like theirs the patriot's dizzy lot,
A glorious spin, and then-a tumble.
Who'll buy, &c. &.

Here, wealthy misers to inter,
We've shrouds of neat post-obit paper;
While, for their heirs, we've quicksilver,
That, fast as they can wish, will caper.
For aldermen we've dials true,

That tell no hour but that of dinne:
For courtly parsons sermons new,
That suit alike both saint and sinner.

Who'll buy, & &c

No time we've now to name our terms,
But, whatsoe'er the whims that seize you,
This oldest of all mortal firms,

Folly & Co., will try to please you.
Or, should you wish a darker hue

Of goods than we can recommend you,

Why then (as we with lawyers do)

To Knavery's shop next door we'll send you. Who'll buy, &c. &o

While thus the blissful moments roll'd,
Moments of rare and fleeting light,
That show themselves, like grains of gold
In the mine's refuse, few and bright;
Behold where, opening far away,
The long Conservatory's range,
Stripp'd of the flowers it wore al day,
But gaining lovelier in exchange,
Presents, on Dresden's costliest ware,
A supper such as Gods might share.
Ah much-lov'd Supper!--blithe repast
Of other times, now dwindling fast,
Since Dinner far into the night
Advanc'd the march of appetite;
Deploy'd his never-ending forces
Of various vintage and three courses,
And, like those Goths who play'd the dickens
With Rome and all her sacred chickens,

Put Supper and her fowls so white,
Legs, wings, and drumsticks, all to flight

Now wak'd once more by wine-whose tide
Is the true Hippocrene, where glide
The muse's swans with happiest wing,
Dipping their bills, before they sing-
The minstrels of the table greet
Th: lisning ear with descant sweet :-

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Ir to see thee be to love thee,

If to love thee be to prize

Nought of earth or heav'n above thee,

Nor to live but for those eyes:

If such love to mortal given,

Be wrong to earth, be wrong to heav'n, 'Tis not for thee the fault to blame, For from those eyes the madness came. Forgive but thou the crime of loving,

In this heart more pride 'twill raise To be thus wrong, with thee approving, Than right, with all a world to praise

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 could ask,
Si blushing deep, as if aware
Of the wing'd secret circling there
Who is this nymph? and what, oh Muse
What, in the name of all odd things
That woman's restless brain pursues,
What mean these mystic whisperings.
Thus runs the tale :-yon blushing maid,
Who sits in beauty's light array'd,
While o'er her leans a tall young Dervise,
(Who from her eyes, as all observe, is
Learning by heart the Marriage Service,)
Is the bright heroine of our song,-
The Love-wed Psyche, whom so long
We've miss'd among this mortal train,
We thought her wing'd to heaven again.
But no-earth still demands her smile;
Her friends, the Gods, must wait awhile.

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 upright,
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!

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

VARIETY.

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 powers above

Still let me roam, unfix'd and free;
In all things, but the nymph I love,
I'll change, and aste 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 EYE 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 glance would undo.

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