Another time, conceiving she perchance Might tread a Pyrrhic, or Romeika dance, I bade the band strike up a Grecian air; Then asked a pas seul of the classic fair: "Sir, on my life, I stir not! Lucian bless "Me!-tread a Grecian dance in English dress! "I stir not, on my life!-Shall it be said "That I, in Horace, Aristotle read, "Whatever dignities my movements grace, "Made void the unities of time and place? "No; for the gay, the bounding waltzers send, "They may amuse you-for they will not mend; "It is in vain you tell them, that not so "Electra spread her arms and turned her toe: "Still swim they on, in undulating wise, "All heedless of the comic Unities!

"And could they witness that incongruous sight, "Plautus would smile, and Terence laugh outright."

Much pleased to see the height to which she soars,
I touch the spring-she pours forth all her stores;
Now bounds to metaphysics, dearest still;

The power of fancy and the choice of will;
Eager to shew us all that women can

Assume, whene'er they ape the strength of man!
Then, as the sun shines forth at close of day

With milder pomp and more attempered ray

Or, as her Homer sometimes quits his sleep,
Nor bids Antinous rail nor Irus weep,
But in the goatherd's lowly cottage views
Eumæus roast his kids and sole his shoes-

So she from Stewart and from Locke descends,
To London coteries and to Tunbridge friends;-
Subscription Rooms, where you may read or buy
The maudlin verse of mock-Montgomery;

Novels, Plays, Poems, by earls' wives and daughters;
The buzzing Pump-room, and the healing waters!
Alas! that yet nor wave nor leech's skill
A female cynic e'er could heal or kill!

So soars, so shines Aspasia-glorious flower!
Pomp of a day, and wonder of an hour!
Aspiring holly-hock! which yet supplies
No tint we love, no fragrance that we prize;
Seen for a moment towering o'er our heads,
Surprising by the height to which it spreads;
Seen, and passed by the next, its towering stem
If we remember, 't is but to condemn !

STANZAS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "LILLIAN."

The lady of his love, oh, she was changed,

As by the sickness of the soul!

Byron.

Go thon, white in thy soul, and fill a throne

Of innocence and purity, in heaven!

Ford.

I.

I know that it must be!

Yea! thou art changed-all worshipped as thou art, Mourned as thou shalt be!-sickness of the heart

Hath done its work on thee!

II.

The dim eyes tell a tale,

A piteous tale, of vigils; and the trace
Of bitter tears is on thy beauteous face,
Beauteous, and yet so pale!

III.

Changed, love!--but not alone!

I am not what they think me; though my cheek
Wear but its last year's furrow, though I speak
Thus in my natural tone.

IV.

The temple of my youth

Was strong in moral purpose:-once, I felt
The glory of philosophy, and knelt
In the pure shrine of truth!

V.

I went into the storm,

And mocked the billows of the tossing sea:

I said to Fate, "what wilt thou do to me?
I have not harmed a worm!"

VI.

Vainly the heart is steeled

In wisdom's armour; let her burn her books!
I look upon them as the soldier looks

Upon his cloven shield.

VII.

Virtue and virtue's rest,

How have they perished! through my onward course Repentance dogs my footsteps!--black remorse

Is my familiar guest!

VIII.

The glory and the glow

Of the world's loveliness have passed away;
And Fate hath little to inflict, to-day,

And nothing to bestow !

IX.

Is not the damning line

Of guilt and grief engraven on me, now?

And the fierce passion which hath scathed thy brow, Hath it not blasted mine?

X.

No matter! I will turn

To the straight path of duty; I have wrought,

At last, my wayward spirit to be taught

What it hath yet to learn.

XI.

Labour shall be my lot;

My kindred shall be joyful in my praise;
And Fame shall twine for me, in after days,
A wreath I covet not.

XII.

And if I cannot make,

Dearest thy hope my hope, thy trust my trust,

Yet will I study to be good and just,

And blameless, for thy sake.