Her downcast eye the modest beauty
Sends, as doubtful of their skill,
To see if feet perform their duty,
And their endless task fulfil :
Footing, footing, footing, footing,
Footing, footing, footing, still.
While the rest in hedgerow state,
All insensible to sound,
With more than human patience wait,
Like trees fast rooted to the ground.
Not such as once, with sprightly motion,
To distant music stirred their stumps,
And tript from Pelion to the Ocean,
Performing avenues and clumps :
What time old Jason's ship, the Argo,
Orpheus fiddling at the helm,
From Colchis bore her golden cargo,
Dancing o'er the azure main.
But why recur to ancient story,
Or balls of modern date?
Be mine to trace the Minuet's fate,
And weep its fallen glory :
To ask, Who rang the parting knell ?
If Vestris came the solemn dirge to hear? Genius of Valoüy, didst thou hover near? Shade of Lepicq! and spirit of Gardel!
I saw their angry forms arise
Where wreaths of smoke involve the skies
Above St. James's steeple:
I heard them curse our heavy heel,
The Irish step, the Highland reel,
And all the United People.
To the dense air the curse adhesive clung,
Repeated since by many a modish tongue,
In words that may be said, but never shall be sung.
What cause untimely urged the Minuet's fate?
Did war subvert the manners of the State?
Did savage nations give the barbarous law,
The Gaul Cisalpine, or the Gonoquaw?
Its fall was destined to a peaceful land,
A sportive pencil, and a courtly hand;
They left a name, that time itself might spare,
To grinding organs and the dancing bear.
On Avon's banks, where sport and laugh
Careless pleasure's sons and daughters,
Where health, the sick, and aged quaff,
From good King Bladud's healing waters;
While genius sketch'd, and humour group'd,
Then it sicken'd, then it droop'd:
Sadden'd with laughter, wasted with a sneer,
And "the long minuet" shorten'd its career.
With cadence slow, and solemn pace,
Th' indignant mourner quits the place—
For ever quits-no more to roam
From proud Augusta's regal dome.
Ah! not unhappy who securely rest,
Within the sacred precincts of a court;
Who, then, their timid steps shall dare arrest?
White wands shall guide them, and gold sticks support. In vain-these eyes with tears of horror wet,
Read its death-warrant in the Court Gazette!
"No ball to-night!" Lord Chamberlain proclaims;
"No ball to-night shall grace thy roof, St. James !
"No ball!" the Globe, the Sun, the Star repeat,
The morning paper and the evening sheet ;
Thro' all the land the tragic news has spread,
And all the land has mourned the Minuet dead.
So power completes; but satire sketch'd the plan,
And Cecil ends what Bunbury began.
GOOD-NIGHT? ah! no; the hour is ill
Which severs those it should unite ;
Let us remain together still,
Then it will be Good-night.
How can I call the lone night good,
Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight?
Be it not said, thought, understood,
That it will be Good-night.
To hearts which near each other move
From evening close to morning light,
The night is good; because, my Love,
They never say Good-night.
GOOD-NIGHT to thee, Lady! tho' many
Have join'd in the dance of to-night,
Thy form was the fairest of any,
Where all was seducing and bright;
Thy smile was the softest and dearest,
Thy form the most sylph-like of all,
And thy voice the most gladsome and clearest
That e'er held a partner in thrall.
Good-night to thee, Lady! 'tis over-
The waltz, the quadrille, and the song-
The whisper'd farewell of the lover,
The heartless adieu of the throng;
The heart that was throbbing with pleasure,
The eye-lid that long'd for repose-
The beaux that were dreaming of treasure,
The girls that were dreaming of beaux.
'Tis over-the lights are all dying,
The coaches all driving away;
And many a fair one is sighing,
And many a false one is gay;
And Beauty counts over her numbers
Of conquests, as homeward she drives-
And some are gone home to their slumbers,
And some are gone home to their wives.
And I, while my cab in the shower
Is waiting, the last at the door,
Am looking all round for the flower
That fell from your wreath on the floor.
I'll keep it-if but to remind me,
Though wither'd and faded its hue-
Wherever next season may find me-
Of England-of Almack's—and you!
There are tones that will haunt us, tho' lonely
Our path be o'er mountain, or sea;
There are looks that will part from us only
When memory ceases to be;
There are hopes which our burthen can lighten,
Tho' toilsome and steep be the way;
And dreams that, like moonlight, can brighten With a light that is clearer than day.
There are names that we cherish, tho' nameless,
For aye on the lip they may be;
There are hearts that, tho' fetter'd, are tameless,
And thoughts unexpress'd, but still free!
And some are too grave for a rover,
And some for a husband too light,—
The Ball and my dream are all over-
Good-night to thee, Lady, Good-night!
CHIVALRY AT A DISCOUNT.
FAIR cousin mine! the golden days
Of old romance are over;
And minstrels now care nought for bays,
Nor damsels for a lover;
And hearts are cold, and lips are mute
That kindled once with passion,
And now we've neither lance nor lute,
And tilting's out of fashion.
Yet weeping Beauty mourns the time
When Love found words in flowers;
When softest sighs were breathed in rhyme,
And sweetest songs in bowers;
Now wedlock is a sober thing-
No more of chains or forges !—
A plain young man-a plain gold ring-
The curate and St. George's.
Then every cross-bow had a string,
And every heart a fetter;
And making love was quite the thing,
And making verses better;
And maiden-aunts were never seen,
And gallant beaux were plenty;
And lasses married at sixteen,
And died at one-and-twenty.
Then hawking was a noble sport,
And chess a pretty science;
And huntsmen learnt to blow a morte,
And heralds a defiance;
And knights and spearmen show'd their might,
And timid hinds took warning;
And hypocras was warm'd at night
And coursers in the morning.
Then plumes and pennons were prepared,
And patron-saints were lauded;
And aoble deeds were bravely dared,
And noble dames applauded;
And Beauty play'd the leech's part,
And wounds were heal'd with syrup;
And warriors sometimes lost a heart,
But never lost a stirrup.
Then there was no such thing as Fear,
And no such word as Reason;
And Faith was like a pointed spear,
And Fickleness was treason;
And hearts were soft, though blows were hard;
But when the fight was over,
A brimming goblet cheer'd the board,
His Lady's smile the lover.
Ay, these were glorious days! The moon
Had then her true adorers ;
And there were lyres and lutes in tune,
And no such thing as snorers;
And lovers swam, and held at nought
Streams broader than the Mersey;
And fifty thousand would have fought
For a smile from Lady Jersey.
Then people wore an iron vest,
And had no use for tailors;
And the artizans who lived the best
Were armourers and nailers;
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