THERE'S SOMETHING STRANGE.

A BUFFALO SONG.

There's something strange, I know not what,
        Come o'er me,
Some phantom I've for ever got
        Before me.
I look on high and in the sky
        'Tis shining;
On earth, its light with all things bright
        Seems twining.
In vain I try this goblin's spells
        To sever;
Go where I will, it round me dwells
        For ever.

And then what tricks by day and night
        It plays me;
In every shape the wicked sprite
        Waylays me.
Sometimes like two bright eyes of blue
        'Tis glancing;
Sometimes like feet, in slippers neat,
        Comes dancing.
By whispers round of every sort
        I'm taunted.
Never was mortal man, in short,
        So haunted.

NOT FROM THEE.

Not from thee the wound should come,
  No, not from thee.
Care not what or whence my doom,
  So not from thee!
Cold triumph! first to make
  This heart thy own;
And then the mirror break
  Where fixt thou shin'st alone.
Not from thee the wound should come,
  Oh, not from thee.
I care not what, or whence, my doom,
  So not from thee.

Yet no—my lips that wish recall;
  From thee, from thee—
If ruin o'er this head must fall,
  'Twill welcome be.
Here to the blade I bare
  This faithful heart;
Wound deep—thou'lt find that there,
  In every pulse thou art.
Yes from thee I'll bear it all:
  If ruin be
The doom that o'er this heart must fall,
  'Twere sweet from thee.

GUESS, GUESS.

I love a maid, a mystic maid,
  Whose form no eyes but mine can see;
She comes in light, she comes in shade,
  And beautiful in both is she.
Her shape in dreams I oft behold,
  And oft she whispers in my ear
Such words as when to others told,
  Awake the sigh, or wring the tear;
Then guess, guess, who she,
The lady of my love, may be.

I find the lustre of her brow,
  Come o'er me in my darkest ways;
And feel as if her voice, even now,
  Were echoing far off my lays.
There is no scene of joy or woe
  But she doth gild with influence bright;
And shed o'er all so rich a glow
  As makes even tears seem full of light:
Then guess, guess, who she,
The lady of my love, may be.

WHEN LOVE, WHO RULED.

When Love, who ruled as Admiral o'er
Has rosy mother's isles of light,
Was cruising off the Paphian shore,
  A sail at sunset hove in sight.
"A chase, a chase! my Cupids all,"
Said Love, the little Admiral.

Aloft the winged sailors sprung,
  And, swarming up the mast like bees,
The snow-white sails expanding flung,
  Like broad magnolias to the breeze.
"Yo ho, yo ho, my Cupids all!"
Said Love, the little Admiral.

The chase was o'er—the bark was caught,
  The winged crew her freight explored;
And found 'twas just as Love had thought,
  For all was contraband aboard.
"A prize, a prize, my Cupids all!"
Said Love, the little Admiral.

Safe stowed in many a package there,
  And labelled slyly o'er, as "Glass,"
Were lots of all the illegal ware,
  Love's Custom-House forbids to pass.
"O'erhaul, o'erhaul, my Cupids all,"
Said Love, the little Admiral.

False curls they found, of every hue,
  With rosy blushes ready made;
And teeth of ivory, good as new,
  For veterans in the smiling trade.
"Ho ho, ho ho, my Cupids all,"
Said Love, the little Admiral.

Mock sighs, too,—kept in bags for use,
  Like breezes bought of Lapland seers,—
Lay ready here to be let loose,
  When wanted, in young spinsters' ears.
"Ha ha, ha ha, my Cupids all,"
Said Love, the little Admiral.

False papers next on board were found,
  Sham invoices of flames and darts,
Professedly for Paphos bound,
  But meant for Hymen's golden marts.
"For shame, for shame, my Cupids all!"
Said Love, the little Admiral.

Nay, still to every fraud awake,
  Those pirates all Love's signals knew,
And hoisted oft his flag, to make
  Rich wards and heiresses bring-to.[1]
"A foe, a foe, my Cupids all!"
Said Love, the little Admiral.

"This must not be," the boy exclaims,
  "In vain I rule the Paphian seas,
"If Love's and Beauty's sovereign names
  "Are lent to cover frauds like these.
"Prepare, prepare, my Cupids all!"
Said Love, the little Admiral.

Each Cupid stood with lighted match—
  A broadside struck the smuggling foe,
And swept the whole unhallowed batch
  Of Falsehood to the depths below.
"Huzza, huzza! my Cupids all!"
Said Love the little Admiral.

[1] "To Bring-to, to check the course of a ship."—Falconer.

STILL THOU FLIEST.

Still thou fliest, and still I woo thee,
  Lovely phantom,—all in vain;
Restless ever, my thoughts pursue thee,
  Fleeting ever, thou mock'st their pain.
Such doom, of old, that youth betided,
  Who wooed, he thought, some angel's charms,
But found a cloud that from him glided,—
  As thou dost from these outstretched arms.

Scarce I've said, "How fair thou shinest,"
  Ere thy light hath vanished by;
And 'tis when thou look'st divinest
  Thou art still most sure to fly.
Even as the lightning, that, dividing
  The clouds of night, saith, "Look on me,"
Then flits again, its splendor hiding.—
  Even such the glimpse I catch of thee.

THEN FIRST FROM LOVE.

Then first from Love, in Nature's bowers,
  Did Painting learn her fairy skill,
And cull the hues of loveliest flowers,
  To picture woman lovelier still.
For vain was every radiant hue,
  Till Passion lent a soul to art,
And taught the painter, ere he drew,
  To fix the model in his heart.

Thus smooth his toil awhile went on,
  Till, lo, one touch his art defies;
The brow, the lip, the blushes shone,
  But who could dare to paint those eyes?
'Twas all in vain the painter strove;
  So turning to that boy divine,
"Here take," he said, "the pencil, Love,
  "No hand should paint such eyes but thine."

HUSH, SWEET LUTE.

Hush, sweet Lute, thy songs remind me
  Of past joys, now turned to pain;
Of ties that long have ceased to bind me,
  But whose burning marks remain.
In each tone, some echo falleth
  On my ear of joys gone by;
Every note some dream recalleth
  Of bright hopes but born to die.

Yet, sweet Lute, though pain it bring me,
  Once more let thy numbers thrill;
Tho' death were in the strain they sing me,
  I must woo its anguish still.
Since no time can e'er recover
  Love's sweet light when once 'tis set,—
Better to weep such pleasures over,
  Than smile o'er any left us yet.

BRIGHT MOON.

Bright moon, that high in heaven art shining,
  All smiles, as if within thy bower to-night
Thy own Endymion lay reclining,
  And thou wouldst wake him with a kiss of light!—
By all the bliss thy beam discovers,
  By all those visions far too bright for day,
Which dreaming bards and waking lovers
  Behold, this night, beneath thy lingering ray,—

I pray thee, queen of that bright heaven,
  Quench not to-night thy love-lamp in the sea,
Till Anthe, in this bower, hath given
  Beneath thy beam, her long-vowed kiss to me.
Guide hither, guide her steps benighted,
  Ere thou, sweet moon, thy bashful crescent hide;
Let Love but in this bower be lighted,
  Then shroud in darkness all the world beside.

LONG YEARS HAVE PAST.

Long years have past, old friend, since we
  First met in life's young day;
And friends long loved by thee and me,
  Since then have dropt away;—
But enough remain to cheer us on,
  And sweeten, when thus we're met,
The glass we fill to the many gone,
  And the few who're left us yet.
Our locks, old friend, now thinly grow,
  And some hang white and chill;
While some, like flowers mid Autumn's snow,
  Retain youth's color still.
And so, in our hearts, tho' one by one,
  Youth's sunny hopes have set,
Thank heaven, not all their light is gone,—
  We've some to cheer us yet.

Then here's to thee, old friend, and long
  May thou and I thus meet,
To brighten still with wine and song
  This short life, ere it fleet.
And still as death comes stealing on,
  Let's never, old friend, forget,
Even while we sigh o'er blessings gone,
  How many are left us yet.

DREAMING FOR EVER.

Dreaming for ever, vainly dreaming,
  Life to the last, pursues its flight;
Day hath its visions fairly beaming,
  But false as those of night.
The one illusion, the other real,
  But both the same brief dreams at last;
And when we grasp the bliss ideal,
  Soon as it shines, 'tis past.

Here, then, by this dim lake reposing,
  Calmly I'll watch, while light and gloom
Flit o'er its face till night is closing—
  Emblem of life's short doom!
But tho', by turns, thus dark and shining,
  'Tis still unlike man's changeful day,
Whose light returns not, once declining,
  Whose cloud, once come, will stay.

THO' LIGHTLY SOUNDS THE SONG I SING.

A SONG OF THE ALPS.

Tho' lightly sounds the song I sing to thee,
Tho' like the lark's its soaring music be,
Thou'lt find even here some mournful note that tells
How near such April joy to weeping dwells.
'Tis 'mong the gayest scenes that oftenest steal
Those saddening thoughts we fear, yet love to feel;
And music never half so sweet appears,
As when her mirth forgets itself in tears.

Then say not thou this Alpine song is gay—
It comes from hearts that, like their mountain-lay,
Mix joy with pain, and oft when pleasure's breath
Most warms the surface feel most sad beneath.
The very beam in which the snow-wreath wears
Its gayest smile is that which wins its tears,—
And passion's power can never lend the glow
Which wakens bliss, without some touch of woe.

THE RUSSIAN LOVER.

Fleetly o'er the moonlight snows
  Speed we to my lady's bower;
Swift our sledge as lightning goes,
  Nor shall stop till morning's hour.
Bright, my steed, the northern star
  Lights us from yon jewelled skies;
But to greet us, brighter far,
  Morn shall bring my lady's eyes.
Lovers, lulled in sunny bowers,
  Sleeping out their dream of time,
Know not half the bliss that's ours,
  In this snowy, icy clime.
Like yon star that livelier gleams
  From the frosty heavens around,
Love himself the keener beams
  When with snows of coyness crowned.
Fleet then on, my merry steed,
  Bound, my sledge, o'er hill and dale;—
What can match a lover's speed?
  See, 'tis daylight, breaking pale!
Brightly hath the northern star
  Lit us from yon radiant Skies;
But, behold, how brighter far
  Yonder shine my lady's eyes!

A SELECTION FROM THE SONGS IN

M. P.; OR, THE BLUE-STOCKING:

A COMIC OPERA IN THREE ACTS.

1811.

BOAT GLEE.

The song that lightens the languid way,
    When brows are glowing,
    And faint with rowing,
Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound thro' life we stray;
The beams that flash on the oar awhile,
  As we row along thro' the waves so clear,
Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile
  That shines o'er sorrow's tear.

Nothing is lost on him who sees
  With an eye that feeling gave;—
For him there's a story in every breeze,
  And a picture in every wave.
Then sing to lighten the languid way;
    When brows are glowing,
    And faint with rowing,
'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound thro' life we stray.

* * * * *

'Tis sweet to behold when the billows are sleeping,
  Some gay-colored bark moving gracefully by;
No damp on her deck but the eventide's weeping,
  No breath in her sails but the summer wind's sigh.
Yet who would not turn with a fonder emotion,
  To gaze on the life-boat, tho' rugged and worn.
Which often hath wafted o'er hills of the ocean
  The lost light of hope to the seaman forlorn!

Oh! grant that of those who in life's sunny slumber
  Around us like summer-barks idly have played,
When storms are abroad we may find in the number
  One friend, like the life-boat, to fly to our aid.

* * * * *

When Lelia touched the lute,
  Not then alone 'twas felt,
But when the sounds were mute,
  In memory still they dwelt.
Sweet lute! in nightly slumbers
Still we heard thy morning numbers.

Ah, how could she who stole
  Such breath from simple wire,
Be led, in pride of soul,
  To string with gold her lyre?
Sweet lute! thy chords she breaketh;
Golden now the strings she waketh!

But where are all the tales
  Her lute so sweetly told?
In lofty themes she fails,
  And soft ones suit not gold.
Rich lute! we see thee glisten,
But, alas! no more we listen!

* * * * *

Young Love lived once in a humble shed,
   Where roses breathing
   And woodbines wreathing
Around the lattice their tendrils spread,
As wild and sweet as the life he led.
   His garden flourisht,
   For young Hope nourisht.
The infant buds with beams and showers;
But lips, tho' blooming, must still be fed,
  And not even Love can live on flowers.

Alas! that Poverty's evil eye
   Should e'er come hither,
   Such sweets to wither!
The flowers laid down their heads to die,
And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh.
   She came one morning.
   Ere Love had warning,
  And raised the latch, where the young god lay;
"Oh ho!" said Love—"is it you? good-by;"
  So he oped the window and flew away!

* * * * *

Spirit of Joy, thy altar lies
  In youthful hearts that hope like mine;
And 'tis the light of laughing eyes
  That leads us to thy fairy shrine.

There if we find the sigh, the tear,
  They are not those to sorrow known;
But breathe so soft, and drop so clear,
  That bliss may claim them for her own.
Then give me, give me, while I weep,
  The sanguine hope that brightens woe,
And teaches even our tears to keep
  The tinge of pleasure as they flow.

The child who sees the dew of night
  Upon the spangled hedge at morn,
Attempts to catch the drops of light,
  But wounds his finger with the thorn.
Thus oft the brightest joys we seek,
  Are lost when touched, and turned to pain;
The flush they kindle leaves the cheek,
  The tears they waken long remain.
But give me, give me, etc.

* * * * *

To sigh, yet feel no pain.
  To weep, yet scarce know why;
To sport an hour with Beauty's chain,
  Then throw it idly by;
To kneel at many a shrine,
  Yet lay the heart on none;
To think all other charms divine,
  But those we just have won;
This is love, careless love,
Such as kindleth hearts that rove.

To keep one sacred flame,
  Thro' life unchilled, unmoved,
To love in wintry age the same
  As first in youth we loved;
To feel that we adore
  To such refined excess.
That tho' the heart would break with more,
  We could not live with less;
This is love, faithful love,
Such as saints might feel above.

* * * * *

Dear aunt, in the olden time of love,
  When women like slaves were spurned,
A maid gave her heart, as she would her glove,
 To be teased by a fop, and returned!
But women grow wiser as men improve.
And, tho' beaux, like monkeys, amuse us,
Oh! think not we'd give such a delicate gem
As the heart to be played with or sullied by them;
  No, dearest aunt, excuse us.

We may know by the head on Cupid's seal
  What impression the heart will take;
If shallow the head, oh! soon we feel
  What a poor impression 'twill make!
Tho' plagued, Heaven knows! by the foolish zeal
Of the fondling fop who pursues me,
Oh, think not I'd follow their desperate rule,
Who get rid of the folly by wedding the fool;
  No, dearest aunt! excuse me.

* * * * *

When Charles was deceived by the maid he loved,
  We saw no cloud his brow o'er-casting,
But proudly he smiled as if gay and unmoved,
  Tho' the wound in his heart was deep and lasting.
And oft at night when the tempest rolled
  He sung as he paced the dark deck over—
"Blow, wind, blow! thou art not so cold
As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."

Yet he lived with the happy and seemed to be gay,
  Tho' the wound but sunk more deep for concealing;
And Fortune threw many a thorn in his way,
  Which, true to one anguish, he trod without feeling!
And still by the frowning of Fate unsubdued
  He sung as if sorrow had placed him above her—
"Frown, Fate, frown! thou art not so rude
  As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."

At length his career found a close in death,
  The close he long wished to his cheerless roving,
For Victory shone on his latest breath,
  And he died in a cause of his heart's approving.
But still he remembered his sorrow,—and still
  He sung till the vision of life was over—
"Come, death, come! thou art not so chill
  As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."

* * * * *

When life looks lone and dreary,
  What light can dispel the gloom?
When Time's swift wing grows weary,
  What charm can refresh his plume?
'Tis woman whose sweetness beameth
  O'er all that we feel or see;
And if man of heaven e'er dreameth,
  'Tis when he thinks purely of thee,
          O woman!

Let conquerors fight for glory,
  Too dearly the meed they gain;
Let patriots live in story—
  Too often they die in vain;
Give kingdoms to those who choose 'em,
  This world can offer to me
No throne like Beauty's bosom,
  No freedom like serving thee,
          O woman!

CUPID'S LOTTERY.

A lottery, a Lottery,
In Cupid's court there used to be;
    Two roguish eyes
    The highest prize
In Cupid's scheming Lottery;
    And kisses, too,
    As good as new,
Which weren't very hard to win,
    For he who won
    The eyes of fun
Was sure to have the kisses in
       A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

This Lottery, this Lottery,
In Cupid's court went merrily,
    And Cupid played
    A Jewish trade
In this his scheming Lottery;
    For hearts, we're told,
    In shares he sold
To many a fond believing drone,
    And cut the hearts
    In sixteen parts
So well, each thought the whole his own.
   Chor.—A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

* * * * *

Tho' sacred the tie that our country entwineth,
  And dear to the heart her remembrance remains,
Yet dark are the ties where no liberty shineth,
  And sad the remembrance that slavery stains.
O thou who wert born in the cot of the peasant,
  But diest in languor in luxury's dome,
Our vision when absent—our glory, when present—
  Where thou art, O Liberty! there is my home.

Farewell to the land where in childhood I've wandered!
  In vain is she mighty, in vain, is she brave!
Unblest is the blood that for tyrants is squandered,
  And fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave.
But hail to thee, Albion! who meet'st the commotion.
  Of Europe as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam!
With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the ocean,
  Hail, Temple of Liberty! thou art my home.

* * * * *

Oh think, when a hero is sighing,
  What danger in such an adorer!
What woman can dream' of denying
  The hand that lays laurels before her?
No heart is so guarded around,
  But the smile of the victor will take it;
No bosom can slumber so sound,
  But the trumpet of glory will wake it.

Love sometimes is given to sleeping,
  And woe to the heart that allows him;
For oh, neither smiling nor weeping
  Has power at those moments to rouse him.
But tho' he was sleeping so fast,
  That the life almost seemed to forsake him,
Believe me, one soul-thrilling blast
  From the trumpet of glory would wake him.

* * * * *

Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice,
  The one squeaking thus, and the other down so!
In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice,
  For one was B alt, and the rest G below.
Oh! oh, Orator Puff!
One voice for one orator's surely enough.

But he still talked away spite of coughs and of frowns,
So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs,
That a wag once on hearing the orator say,
"My voice is for war," asked him, "Which of them, pray?"
    Oh! oh! etc.

Reeling homewards one evening, top-heavy with gin,
And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown,
He tript near a sawpit, and tumbled right in,
"Sinking Fund," the last words as his noddle came down.
    Oh! oh, etc.

"Help! help!" he exclaimed, in his he and she tones,
"Help me out! help me out—I have broken my bones!"
"Help you out?" said a Paddy who passed, "what a bother!
Why, there's two of you there, can't you help one another?"
    Oh I oh! etc.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE.

SPOKEN BY MR. COBBY, IN THE CHARACTER OF VAPID, AFTER THE PLAY OF THE DRAMATIST, AT THE KILKENNY THEATRE.

(Entering as if to announce the Play.)

Ladies and Gentlemen, on Monday night,
For the ninth time—oh accents of delight
To the poor author's ear, when three times three
With a full bumper crowns, his Comedy!
When, long by money, and the muse, forsaken,
He finds at length his jokes and boxes taken,
And sees his play-bill circulate—alas,
The only bill on which his name will pass!
Thus, Vapid, thus shall Thespian scrolls of fame
Thro' box and gallery waft your well-known name,
While critic eyes the happy cast shall con,
And learned ladies spell your Dram. Person.

'Tis said our worthy Manager[1]intends
To help my night, and he, ye know, has friends.
Friends, did I say? for fixing friends, or parts,
Engaging actors, or engaging hearts,
There's nothing like him! wits, at his request.
Are turned to fools, and dull dogs learn to jest;
Soldiers, for him, good "trembling cowards" make,
And beaus, turned clowns, look ugly for his sake;
For him even lawyers talk without a fee,
For him (oh friendship) I act tragedy!
In short, like Orpheus, his persuasive tricks
Make boars amusing, and put life in sticks.

With such a manager we can't but please,
Tho' London sent us all her loud O. P.'s,[2]
Let them come on, like snakes, all hiss and rattle,
Armed with a thousand fans, we'd give them battle;
You, on our side, R. P.[3]upon our banners,
Soon should we teach the saucy O. P.'s manners:
And show that, here—howe'er John Bull may doubt—
In all our plays, the Riot-Act's cut out;
And, while we skim the cream of many a jest,
Your well-timed thunder never sours its zest.

Oh gently thus, when three short weeks are past,
At Shakespeare's altar,[4] shall we breathe our last;
And, ere this long-loved dome to ruin nods,
Die all, die nobly, die like demigods!

[1] The late Mr. Richard Power.

[2] The brief appellation by which these persons were distinguished who, at the opening of the new theatre of Convent Garden, clamored for the continuance of the old prices of admission.

[3] The initials of our manager's name.

[4] This alludes to a scenic representation then preparing for the last night of the performances.

EXTRACT.

FROM A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE AUTHOR, AT THE OPENING OF THE KILKENNY THEATRE, OCTOBER, 1809.

* * * * *

Yet, even here, tho' Fiction rules the hour,
There shine some genuine smiles, beyond her power;
And there are tears, too—tears that Memory sheds
Even o'er the feast that mimic fancy spreads,
When her heart misses one lamented guest,[1]
Whose eye so long threw light o'er all the rest!
There, there, indeed, the Muse forgets her task,
And drooping weeps behind Thalia's mask.

Forgive this gloom—forgive this joyless strain,
Too sad to welcome pleasure's smiling train.
But, meeting thus, our hearts will part the lighter,
As mist at dawn but makes the setting brighter;
Gay Epilogue will shine where Prologue fails—
As glow-worms keep their splendor for their tails.

I know not why—but time, methinks, hath past
More fleet than usual since we parted last.
It seems but like a dream of yesternight.
Whose charm still hangs, with fond, delaying light;
And, ere the memory lose one glowing hue
Of former joy, we come to kindle new.
Thus ever may the flying moments haste
With trackless foot along life's vulgar waste,
But deeply print and lingeringly move,
When thus they reach the sunny spots we love.
Oh yes, whatever be our gay career,
Let this be still the solstice of the year,
Where Pleasure's sun shall at its height remain,
And slowly sink to level life again.

[1] The late Mr. John Lyster, one of the oldest members and best actors of the Kilkenny Theatrical Society.

THE SYLPH'S BALL.

A sylph, as bright as ever sported
  Her figure thro' the fields of air,
By an old swarthy Gnome was courted.
  And, strange to say, he won the fair.

The annals of the oldest witch
  A pair so sorted could not show,
But how refuse?—the Gnome was rich,
  The Rothschild of the world below;

And Sylphs, like other pretty creatures,
  Are told, betimes, they must consider
Love as an auctioneer of features,
  Who knocks them down to the best bidder.

Home she was taken to his Mine—
  A Palace paved with diamonds all—
And, proud as Lady Gnome to shine,
  Sent out her tickets for a ball.

The lower world of course was there,
  And all the best; but of the upper
The sprinkling was but shy and rare,—
A few old Sylphids who loved supper.

As none yet knew the wondrous Lamp
Of DAVY, that renowned Aladdin,
And the Gnome's Halls exhaled a damp
Which accidents from fire were had in;

The chambers were supplied with light
By many strange but safe devices;
Large fire-flies, such as shine at night
Among the Orient's flowers and spices;—

Musical flint-mills—swiftly played
 By elfin hands—that, flashing round,
Like certain fire-eyed minstrel maids,
Gave out at once both light and sound.

Bologna stones that drink the sun;
 And water from that Indian sea,
Whose waves at night like wildfire run—
Corked up in crystal carefully.

Glow-worms that round the tiny dishes
Like little light-houses, were set up;
And pretty phosphorescent fishes
 That by their own gay light were eat up.

'Mong the few guests from Ether came
That wicked Sylph whom Love we call—
My Lady knew him but by name,
 My Lord, her husband, not at all.

Some prudent Gnomes, 'tis said, apprised
That he was coming, and, no doubt
Alarmed about his torch, advised
 He should by all means be kept out.

But others disapproved this plan,
 And by his flame tho' somewhat frighted,
Thought Love too much a gentleman
In such a dangerous place to light it.

However, there he was—and dancing
 With the fair Sylph, light as a feather;
They looked like two fresh sunbeams glancing
At daybreak down to earth together.

And all had gone off safe and well,
 But for that plaguy torch whose light,
Though not yet kindled—who could tell
How soon, how devilishly, it might?

And so it chanced—which, in those dark
 And fireless halls was quite amazing;
Did we not know how small a spark
 Can set the torch of Love a-blazing.

Whether it came (when close entangled
 In the gay waltz) from her bright eyes,
Or from the lucciole, that spangled
 Her locks of jet—is all surmise;

But certain 'tis the ethereal girl
 Did drop a spark at some odd turning,
Which by the waltz's windy whirl
 Was fanned up into actual burning.

Oh for that Lamp's metallic gauze,
 That curtain of protecting wire,
Which DAVY delicately draws
 Around illicit, dangerous fire!—

The wall he sets 'twixt Flame and Air,
  (Like that which barred young Thisbe's bliss,)
Thro' whose small holes this dangerous pair
  May see each other but not kiss.

At first the torch looked rather bluely,—
  A sign, they say, that no good boded—
Then quick the gas became unruly.
  And, crack! the ball-room all exploded.

Sylphs, gnomes, and fiddlers mixt together,
  With all their aunts, sons, cousins, nieces,
Like butterflies in stormy weather,
  Were blown—legs, wings, and tails—to pieces!

While, mid these victims of the torch,
  The Sylph, alas, too, bore her part—
Found lying with a livid scorch
  As if from lightning o'er her heart!

* * * * *

"Well done"—a laughing Goblin said—
  Escaping from this gaseous strife—
"'Tis not the first time Love has made
  "A blow-up in connubial life!"

REMONSTRANCE.

After a Conversation with Lord John Russell, in which he had intimated some Idea of giving up all political Pursuits.

What! thou, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy name—
  Thou, born of a Russell—whose instinct to run
The accustomed career of thy sires, is the same
  As the eaglet's, to soar with his eyes on the sun!

Whose nobility comes to thee, stampt with a seal,
  Far, far more ennobling than monarch e'er set;
With the blood of thy race, offered up for the weal
  Of a nation that swears by that martyrdom yet!

Shalt thou be faint-hearted and turn from the strife,
  From the mighty arena, where all that is grand
And devoted and pure and adorning in life,
  'Tis for high-thoughted spirits like thine to command?

Oh no, never dream it—while good men despair
  Between tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow,
Never think for an instant thy country can spare
  Such a light from her darkening horizon as thou.

With a spirit, as meek as the gentlest of those
  Who in life's sunny valley lie sheltered and warm;
Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose
  To the top cliffs of Fortune and breasted her storm;

With an ardor for liberty fresh as in youth
  It first kindles the bard and gives life to his lyre;
Yet mellowed, even now, by that mildness of truth
  Which tempers but chills not the patriot fire;

With an eloquence—not like those rills from a height,
  Which sparkle and foam and in vapor are o'er;
But a current that works out its way into light
  Thro' the filtering recesses of thought and of lore.

Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade;
  If the stirrings of Genius, the music of fame,
And the charms of thy cause have not power to persuade,
  Yet think how to Freedom thou'rt pledged by thy Name.

Like the boughs of that laurel by Delphi's decree
  Set apart for the Fane and its service divine,
So the branches that spring from the old Russell tree
  Are by Liberty claimed for the use of her Shrine.

MY BIRTH-DAY.

"My birth-day"—what a different sound
  That word had in my youthful ears!
And how, each time the day comes round,
  Less and less white its mark appears!

"When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And as Youth counts the shining links
  That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks
  How hard that chain will press at last.
Vain was the man, and false as vain,
  Who said—"were he ordained to run
"His long career of life again,
  "He would do all that he had done."—
Ah, 'tis not thus the voice that dwells
  In sober birth-days speaks to me;
Far otherwise—of time it tells,
  Lavished unwisely, carelessly:
Of counsel mockt; of talents made
  Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
  Upon unholy, earthly shrines;
Of nursing many a wrong desire,
  Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire
  That crost my pathway, for his star.—
All this it tells, and, could I trace
  The imperfect picture o'er again.
With power to add, retouch, efface
  The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away—
All—but that Freedom of the Mind
  Which hath been more than wealth to me;
Those friendships, in my boyhood twined,
  And kept till now unchangingly,
And that dear home, that saving ark,
  Where Love's true light at last I've found,
Cheering within, when all grows dark
  And comfortless and stormy round!

FANCY.

The more I've viewed this world, the more I've found,
That filled as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare,
Fancy commands within her own bright round
  A world of scenes and creatures far more fair.
Nor is it that her power can call up there
  A single charm, that's not from Nature won,—
No more than rainbows in their pride can wear
  A single tint unborrowed from the sun;
But 'tis the mental medium; it shines thro',
That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue;
As the same light that o'er the level lake
  One dull monotony of lustre flings,
Will, entering in the rounded raindrop, make
Colors as gay as those on angels' wings!

SONG.

FANNY, DEAREST.

Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,
  Fanny dearest, for thee I'd sigh;
And every smile on my cheek should turn
  To tears when thou art nigh.
But between love and wine and sleep,
  So busy a life I live,
That even the time it would take to weep
  Is more than my heart can give.
Then wish me not to despair and pine,
  Fanny, dearest of all the dears!
The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine,
  Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
  Fanny dearest, thy image lies;
But ah! the mirror would cease to shine,
  If dimmed too often with sighs.
They lose the half of beauty's light,
  Who view it thro' sorrow's tear;
And 'tis but to see thee truly bright
  That I keep my eye-beams clear.
Then wait no longer till tears shall flow—

  Fanny, dearest! the hope is vain;
If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,
  I shall never attempt it with rain.

TRANSLATIONS FROM CATULLUS.

CARM. 70.

dicebas quondam, etc.

TO LESBIA.

Thou told'st me, in our days of love,
  That I had all that heart of thine;
That, even to share the couch of Jove,
  Thou wouldst not, Lesbia, part from mine.

How purely wert thou worshipt then!
  Not with the vague and vulgar fires
Which Beauty wakes in soulless men,—
  But loved, as children by their sires.

That flattering dream, alas, is o'er;—
  I know thee now—and tho' these eyes
Doat on thee wildly as before,
  Yet, even in doating, I despise.

Yes, sorceress—mad as it may seem—
  With all thy craft, such spells adorn thee,
That passion even outlives esteem.
  And I at once adore—and scorn thee.

CARM. II.

pauca nunciate meae puellae.

Comrades and friends! with whom, where'er
  The fates have willed thro' life I've roved,
Now speed ye home, and with you bear
  These bitter words to her I've loved.

Tell her from fool to fool to run,
  Where'er her vain caprice may call;
Of all her dupes not loving one,
  But ruining and maddening all.

Bid her forget—what now is past—
  Our once dear love, whose rain lies
Like a fair flower, the meadow's last.
  Which feels the ploughshare's edge and dies!

CARM. 29.

peninsularum Sirmio, insularumque ocelle.

Sweet Sirmio! thou, the very eye
  Of all peninsulas and isles,
That in our lakes of silver lie,
  Or sleep enwreathed by Neptune's smiles—

How gladly back to thee I fly!
  Still doubting, asking—can it be
That I have left Bithynia's sky,
  And gaze in safety upon thee?

Oh! what is happier than to find
  Our hearts at ease, our perils past;
When, anxious long, the lightened mind
  Lays down its load of care at last:

When tired with toil o'er land and deep,
  Again we tread the welcome floor
Of our own home, and sink to sleep
  On the long-wished-for bed once more.

This, this it is that pays alone
  The ills of all life's former track.—
Shine out, my beautiful, my own
  Sweet Sirmio, greet thy master back.

And thou, fair Lake, whose water quaffs
  The light of heaven like Lydia's sea,
Rejoice, rejoice—let all that laughs
  Abroad, at home, laugh out for me!