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 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 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 mean time, 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 coloring of a shadowy dream;
And there was still where Day had set
A flush that spoke him loath 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 hoped or guess'd,
Is sweeter than the whole possess'd ;-
That Beauty, when least shone upon,
A creature most ideal grows;
And there's no light from moon or sun
Like that Imagination throws;—

It is, alas, that Fancy shrinks

Ev'n from a bright reality,
And turning inly, feels and thinks

Far 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 noonday, plain, Now brighten'd, in the gloom, to belles; And the brief interval of time,

"Twixt after dinner and before, To 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 reclined,
Lisp out love-sonnets as they glide—
Astonishing old Thames to find

Such doings on his mortal 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.
Whatever 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 Valor rests

His eagle wing untamed.

(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 ;"1– Wearing out tunes as fast as shoes,

Till fagg'd Rossini scarce respires; Till Mayerbeer for mercy sues,

And Weber at her feet expires.

And now the set hath ceased-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 sentTwo 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 kind,
A prettier show 'twas hard to find;
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-

&c. to the dances selected from it (as was done in Paris) has been avoided.

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-laced 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.

I now have given (excuse the pun)
A vested interest in my heart.
Oh! ah! &c.

Still round and round with him I'll go.

HE.

What if, by fond remembrance led

Again to wear our mutual chain,
For me thou cutt'st Fitznoodle dead,
And I levant from Lady Jane.
Oh! ah! &c.

Still round and round again we'll go.

SHE.

Though he the Noodle honors give,
And thine, dear youth, are not so high,
With thee in endless waltz i'd live,

With thee, to Weber's Stop-Waltz, die!
Oh! ah. &c.

Thus round and round through life we'll go.
[Exeunt waltzing.

WALTZ DUET.1

HE.

LONG as I waltz'd with only thee,
Each blissful Wednesday that went by,
Nor stylish Stultz, nor neat Nugee
Adorn'd a youth so blest as I.
Oh! ah! ah! oh!

Those happy days are gone-heigho

SHE.

Long as with thee I skimm'd the ground
Nor yet was scorn'd for Lady Jane,
No blither nymph tetotum'd round
To Collinet's immortal strain.

Oh! ah! &c.

Those happy days are gone-heigho!

HE.

With Lady Jane now whirl'd about,

I know no bounds of time or breath; And, should the charmer's head hold out, My heart and heels are hers till death. Oh! ah! &c.

Still round and round through life we'll go.

SHE.

To Lord Fitznoodle's eldest son,

A youth renown'd for waistcoats smart,

1 It is hardly necessary to remind the reader that this Duet is a parody of the often-translated and parodied ode of Horace, "Donec gratus eram tibi," &c.

While thus, like motes that dance away
Existence in a summer ray,

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 full 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'erhead,

Open to heaven's sweet breath and ray; While round its rim there burning stood

Lamps, with young flowers beside them bedded, That shrunk from such warm neighborhood;

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 fallHither, 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-eyed nymph, array'd—
Like her, whom Art hath deathless made,
Bright Mona Lisa'-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 suffused 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:

Forms, such as up the wooded creeks
Of Helle's shore at noonday glide,
Or, nightly, on her glist'ning sea,
Woo the bright waves with melody-
Now link'd their triple league again
Of voices sweet, and sung a strain,
Such as, had Sappho's tuneful ear

But caught it, on the fatal steep,
She would have paused, entranced, to hear,
And, for that day, deferr'd her leap.

SONG AND TRIO.

On one of those sweet nights that oft
Their lustre o'er th' Egean 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!"

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 wo 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-

1 The celebrated portrait by Leonardo da Vinci, which he is said to have occupied four years in painting.-Vasari, vol. vii.

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 loved 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.

Он, 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 flame
Of every lamp he pass'd, or blue,
Or green, or crimson, lent its hue;
As though a live chameleon's skin
He had despoil'd to robe him in.
A zone he wore of clatt'ring shells,

And from his lofty cap, where shone
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,
Chanted 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 juggler's 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 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., &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 dinner;
For courtly parsons sermons new,
That suit alike both saint and sinner.
Who'll buy, &c., &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 and 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., &c

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; Behoid where, opening far away,

The long Conservatory's range, Stripp'd of the flowers it wore all day, But gaining lovelier in exchange, Presents, on Dresden's costliest ware, A supper, such as Gods might share.

Ah much-loved Supper!-blithe repast
Of other times, now dwindling fast,
Since Dinner far into the night
Advanced 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 waked once more by wine-whose tide Is the true Hippocrene, where glide