SCEPTICISM. ERE Psyche drank the cup that shed stream, To Psyche's lips she knew not why Made even that blessed nectar seem COUNTRY DANCE AND ONE night, the nymph called Country Whom folks of late have use so ill, Preferring a coquette from France, Having been chased from London down As though its sweetness soon would She used to grace--a country-towndie. 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 Went smiling to the New Year's ball 'Here, here, at least,' she cried, 'though driven From London's gay and shining Though, like a Peri cast from Heaven, "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? In vain did Love say, 'Turn thine eyes And in these arms-what canst thou 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. me; 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 QuadrilleSee 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, From the first fiddle, set her trembling. She stops-she listens-can it be? As plain as English bow can scrape it. 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 bau 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 hairHer 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 For English, at a single glance- A little gauche, 'tis fair to own, And playing oft the devil with flounces. 'Alas, the change !-oh, ! And rather given to skips and With such a Foreign Secretary, Aided by foreign dancing-masters ? 'An old English country-dance. 2 Another old English country-dance. 'Ah, did you know how blest we ranged, Ere vile Quadrille usurped the tiddleWhat 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, 6 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 advancesNo 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 theoretic. 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 crownThe 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, Redeemed and pure-we care not. 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. 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 de 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 doThey 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, The first, the true, the only one 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 ? HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL POEMS. FIR Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson Low, (By name, and ah! by nature so) As thou art fond of persecutions, Perhaps thou'st read, or heard repeated, How Captain Gulliver was treated When thrown among the Lilliputians. They tied him down-these little men did And having valiantly ascended Upon the Mighty Man's protuberance, They did so strut!-upon my soul, It must have been extremely droll To see their pigmy pride's exuberance! And how the doughty mannikins Amus'd themselves with sticking pins, And needles in the great man's breeches : And how some very little things, Alas, alas! that it should happen For Gulliver, there, took the nap, Whoe'er was in, whoe'er was out, 'Twas all, at least, contriv'd by Ned. With NAP, if Russia went to war, 'Twas owing, under Providence, To certain hints Ned gave the Czar(Vide his pamphlet-price, sixpence). If France was beat at Waterloo As all but Frenchmen think she wasTo Ned, as Wellington well knew, Was owing half that day's applause. Then for his news-no envoy's bag E'er pass'd so many secrets through it; Scarcely a telegraph could wag Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it. Such tales he had of foreign plots, With foreign names, one's ear to buzz in! From Russia, chefs and ofs in lots, From Poland, owskis by the dozen. When George, alarm'd for England's creed, Turn'd out the last Whig ministry, And men ask'd Who advis'd the deed? Ned modestly confess'd 'twas he. For though, by some unlucky miss, He had not downright seen the King, He sent such hints through Viscount This, To Marquis That, as clench'd the thing. The same it was in science, arts, The Drama, Books, MS. and printedKean learn'd from Ned his cleverest parts, And Scott's last work by him was hinted. Childe Harold in the proofs he read, And, here and there, infus'd some soul in't |