We gather flowers of every hue,
And fish in boats for fishes,
Build summer-houses painted blue,—
But life's as frail as dishes.

Walking about their groves of trees,
Blue bridges and blue rivers,
How little thought them two Chinese,
They'd both be smash'd to shivers.

Thomas Hood.

CCCLXXXIV.

ELEGY ON THE ABROGATION OF THE BIRTII. NIGHT BALL, AND THE CONSEQUENT FINAL SUBVERSION OF THE MINUET.

By a beau of the last century.

Now cease the exulting strain,

And bid the warbling lyre complain;

Heave the soft sigh, and drop the tuneful tear,

And mingle notes far other than of mirth,

E'en with the song that greets the new-born year,

Or hails the day that gave a monarch birth.

That self-same sun whose chariot wheels have roll'd
Thro' many a circling year, with glorious toil,

Up to the axles in refulgent gold,

And gems, and silk, and crape, and flowers, and foil;
That self-same sun no longer dares

Bequeath his honours to his heirs,

And bid the dancing hours supply

As erst, with kindred pomp, his absence from the sky.

For ever at his lordly call

Uprose the spangled night!

Leading, in gorgeous splendour bright,

The minuet and the Ball.

And balls each frolic hour may bring,

That revels through the maddening spring,

Shaking with hurried steps the painted floor :

But Minuets are no more!

No more the well-taught feet shall tread

The figure of the mazy Zed:

The beau of other times shall mourn,
As gone, and never to return,
The graceful bow, the curtsy low,
The floating forms, that undulating glide,
(Like anchor'd vessels on the swelling tide,)
That rise and sink, alternate, as they go,
Now bent the knee, now lifted on the toe,
The side-long step that works its even way,
The slow pas-grave, and slower balancé
Still with fixed gaze he eyes the imagined fair,
And turns the corner with an easy air.
Not so his partner-from her tangled train
To free her captive foot, she strives in vain ;
Her tangled train, the struggling captive holds
(Like great Alcides) in its fatal folds;
The laws of gallantry his aid demand,
The laws of etiquette withhold his hand.
Such pains, such pleasures, now alike are o'er,
And beau and etiquette shall soon exist no more!

In their stead, behold advancing,
Modern men and women dancing!
Step and dress alike express,
Above, below, from head to toe,
Male and female awkwardness.
Without a hoop, without a ruffle,
One eternal jig and shuffle;

Where's the air, and where's the gait?
Where's the feather in the hat?
Where's the frizzed toupee? and where,
O, where's the powder for the hair?
Where are all their former graces?
And where three-quarters of their faces?
With half the forehead lost and half the chin?
We know not where they end, or where begin.

Mark the pair, whom favouring fortune
At the envy'd top shall place,
Humbly they the rest impòrtune
To vouchsafe a little space.

Not the graceful arm to wave in,
Or the silken robe expand;

All superfluous action saving,
Idly drops the lifeless hand.

d gold sticks support. horror wet, ourt Gazette! namberlain proclaims; ce thy roof, St. James!' e Sun, the Star repeat, the evening sheet; tragic news has spread, mourned the Minuet dead. es; but satire sketch'd the plan, what Bunbury began.

Catherine M. Fanshawe.

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.

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;