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Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blaspheme?
Thy hard forgot thy praises were his theme.
TERPSICHORE forgive!-at every bal

My wife now waltzes-and my daughters shall;
My son (or stop-'t is needless to inquire-
These little accidents should ne'er transpire;
Some ages hence our genealogic tree
Will wear as green a bough for him as me),
Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends,
Grandsons for me-in heirs to all his friends.


Note 1. Page 502, line 4. State of the poll (last day) 5.

Note 2. Page 502, line 6.

don himself would have nothing to object to such liberal bastards of our Lady of Babylon.

Note 5. Page 503, line 7.

The patriotic arson of our amiable allies cannot be sufficiently commended-nor subscribed for. Amongst other details omitted in the various despatches of our eloquent ambassador, he did not state (being too much occupied with the exploits of Colonel C—, in swimming rivers frozen, and galloping over roads impassable), that one entire province perished by famine in the most melancholy manner, as follows:-In General Rostopchin's consummate conflagration, the consumption of tallow and train oil was so great, that the market was inadequate to the demand: and thus one hundred and thirty-three thousand persons were starved to death, by being reduced to wholesome diet! The lamplighters of London have since subscribed a pint (of oil) a-piece, and the tallow-chandlers have unanimously voted a quantity of best moulds (four to the pound) to the re

My Latin is all forgotten, if a man can be said to have forgotten what he never remembered; but I bought my title-page motto of a Catholic priest for a three lief of the surviving Scythians-the scarcity will soon, shilling bank token, after much haggling for the even sixpence. I grudgea the money to a Papist, being all for the memory of Perceval, and “No Popery;" and quite regretting the downfall of the Pope, because we can't burn him any more.

Note 3. Page 503, line 1.

"Glance their many-twinkling feet."-Gray.

Note 4. Page 503, line 21.

To rival Lord W.'s, or his nephew's, as the reader pleases: the one gained a pretty woman, whom he

by such exertions, and a proper attention to the quality rather than the quantity of provision, be totally alleviated. It is said, in return, that the untouched Ukraine has subscribed sixty thousand beeves for a day's meal to our suffering manufacturers.

Note 6. Page 504, line 5.

Dancing girls-who do for hire what Waltz doth gratis.

Note 7. Page 504, line 20.

It cannot be complained now, as in the Lady Bausdeserved, by fighting for; and the other has been fight-siere's time, of the "Sieur de la Croix," that there be ing in the Peninsula many a long day, "by Shrewsbury "no whiskers;" but how far these are indications of clock," without gaining any thing in that country but valour in the field, or elsewhere, may still be questionthe title of "the Great Lord," and "the Lord," which able. Much may be and hath been avouched on both savours of profanation, having been hitherto applied only to that Being, to whom "Te Deums" for carnage are the rankest blasphemy.-It is to be presumed the general will one day return to his Sabine farm, there

"To tame the genius of the stubborn plain, Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain!" The Lord Peterborough conquered continents in a summer; we do more-we contrive both to conquer and lose them in a shorter season. If the "great Lord's" Cincinnatian progress in agriculture be no speedier than the proportional average of time in Pope's couplet, it will, according to the farmer's proverb, be "ploughing with dogs."

sides. In the olden time philosophers had whiskers and soldiers none-Scipio himself was shaven-Hannibal thought his one eye handsome enough without a beard; but Adrian, the Emperor, wore a beard (having warts on his chin, which neither the Empress Sabina, nor even the courtiers, could abide)-Turenne had whiskers, Marlborough none-) -Buonaparte is unwhiskered, the R- whiskered; "argal" greatness of mind and whiskers may or may not go together: but certainly the different occurrences, since the growth of the last-mentioned, go further in behalf of whiskers than the anathema of Anselm did against long hair in the reign of Henry I.

Formerly, red was a favourite colour. See Lodowick Barrey's comedy of ham Alley, 1661, act I. scene 1. "Taffeta. Now, for a wager-What colour'd beard comes next by the window?

"Adriana. A black man's, I think.

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Taffeta. I think not so: I think a red, for that is most in fashion."

By the by-one of this illustrious person's new titles is forgotten-it is, however, worth remembering-"Salvador del mundo!" credite, posteri! If this be the appellation annexed by the inhabitants of the Peninsula to the name of a man who has not yet saved themquery-are they worth saving even in this world? for, according to the mildest modifications of any Christian creed, those three words make the odds much against There is "nothing new under the sun;" but red, them in the next." Saviour of the world," quotha!-then a favourite, has now subsided into a favourites it were to be wished that he, or any one else, could save a corner of it-his country. Yet this stupid misnomer, although it shows the near connexion between super- An anachronism-Waltz, and the battle of Austerlitz stition and impiety, so far has its use, that it proves are before said to have opened the ball together: the there can be little to dread from those Catholics (in-bard means (if he means any thing), Waltz was not so quisitorial Catholics too) who can confer such an ap- much in vogue till the K-t attained the acmé of pellation on a Protestant. I suppose next year he will his popularity. Waltz, the comet, whiskers, and the be entitled the "Virgin Mary :" if so, Lord George Gor-new government, illuminated heaven and earth, in a 2 ▼ 2



Note 8. Page 504, line 40.

their glory, much about the same time; of these the service (being already in the Rt's): it would not be

comet only has disappeared; the other three continue to astonish us still.-PRINTER'S DEVIL.

Note 9. Page 504, line 44. Amongst others a new ninepence-a creditable coin now forthcoming, worth a pound, in paper, at the fairest calculation.

Note 10. Page 504, line 51.

"Oh that right should thus overcome might!" Who does not remember the "delicate investigation" in the "Merry Wives of Windsor?"

"Ford. Pray you come near: if I suspect without cause, why then make sport at me; then let me be your jest; I deserve it. How now? whither bear you


"Mrs. Ford. What have you to do whither they bear ?-you were best meddle with buck-washing."

Note 11. Page 504, line 56.

The gentle, or ferocious reader, may fill up the blank as he pleases-there are several dissyllabic names at his

fair to back any peculiar initial against the alphabet, as every month will add to the list now entered for the sweepstakes-a distinguished consonant is said to be the favourite, much against the wishes of the knowing


Note 12. Page 504, line 74.

"We have changed all that," says the Mock Doctor, "'t is all gone-Asmodeus knows where. After all, it is of no great importance how women's hearts are disposed of; they have nature's privilege to distribute them as absurdly as possible. But there are also some men with hearts so thoroughly bad, as to remind us of those phenomena often mentioned in natural history; viz. a when divided, you discover a toad in the centre, lively, mass of solid stone-only to be opened by force-anu and with the reputation of being venomous.”

Note 13. Page 504, line 94.

In Turkey, a pertinent-here, an impertinent and superfluous question-literally put, as in the text, by a Persian to Morier, on seeing a waltz in Pera.—Vade Morier's Travels.

The Lament of TaSSO.


AT Ferrara (in the library) are preserved the original MSS. of Tasso's Gierusalemme and of Guarini's Pastor Fido, with letters of Tasso, one from Titian to Ariosto; and the inkstand and chair, the tomb and the house of the latter. But as misfortune has a greater interest for posterity, and little or none for the contemporary, the cell where Tasso was confined in the hospital of St. Anna attracts a more fixed attention than the residence or the monument of Ariosto-at least it had this effect on me. There are two inscriptions, one on the outer gate, the second over the cell itself, inviting, unnecessarily, the wonder and the indignation of the spectator. Ferrara is much decayed and depopulated; the castle still exists entire; and I saw the court where Parisina and Hugo were beheaded, according to the annal of Gibbon.



LONG years! It tries the thrilling frame to bear
And eagle-spirit of a child of song-
Long years of outrage, calumny and wrong;
Imputed madness, prison'd solitude,
And the mind's canker in its savage mood,
When the impatient thirst of light and air
Parches the heart; and the abhorred grate,
Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade,
Works through the throbbing eye-ball to the brain
With a hot sense of heaviness and pain;
And bare, at once, captivity display'd
Stanas scoffing througn the never-open'd gate,
Which nothing through its bars admits, save day

And tasteless food, which I have eat alone
Till its unsocial bitterness is gone;
Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave
And I can banquet like a beast of prey,
Which is my lair, and-it may be—my grave.
All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear,
But must be borne. I stoop not to despair;
For I have battled with mine agony,
And made me wings wherewith to overfly
The narrow circus of my dungeon wall,
And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall;
And revell'd among men and things divine,
And pour'd my spirit over Palestine,
In honour of the sacred war for him,
The God who was on earth and is in heaven,
For he hath strengthen'd me in heart and limb.
That through this sufferance I might be forgiven,
I have employ'd my penance to record
How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored.


But this is o'er-my pleasant task is done:
My long-sustaining friend of many years!
If I do blot thy final page with tears, .
Know that my sorrows have wrung from me none.
But thou, my young creation! my soul's child!
Which ever playing round me came and smiled,
And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight,
Thou too art gone-and so is my delight:
And therefore do I weep and inly bleed
With this last bruise upon a broken reed.
Thou too art ended-what is left me now?
For I have anguish yet to bear-and how?
I know not that--but in the innate force
Of my own spirit shall be found resource.
I have not sunk, for I had no remorse,

Nor cause for such: they call'd me mad-and why? Thy brother hates-but I can not detest,

Oh Leonora! wilt not thou reply? I was indeed delirious in my heart

To lift my love so lofty as thou art;

But still my frenzy was not of the mind;

I knew my fault, and feel my punishment
Not less because I suffer it unbent.

That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind,

Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind;
But let them go, or torture as they will,
My heart can multiply thine image still;
Successful love may sate itself away,
The wretched are the faithful; 't is their fate
To have all feeling save the one decay,
And every passion into one dilate,
As rapid rivers into ocean pour;

But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore.


Above me, hark! the long and maniac cry
Of minds and bodies in captivity.
And hark! the lash and the increasing howl,
And the half-inarticulate blasphemy!

There be some here with worse than frenzy foul,
Some who do still goad on the o'er-labour'd mind,
And dim the little light that's left behind
With needless torture, as their tyrant will
Is wound up to the lust of doing ill:

With these and with their victims am I class'd,
'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have pass'd;
'Mid sights and sounds like these my life may close:
So let it be for then I shall repose.


I have been patient, let me be so yet;

I had forgotten half I would forget,

But it revives-oh! would it were my lot

To be forgetful as I am forgot!

Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell
In this vast lazar-house of many woes?
Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind,
Nor words a language, nor ev'n men mankind;
Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows,
And each is tortured in his separate hell-
For we are crowded in our solitudes-
Many, but each divided by the wall,


Which echoes Madness in her babbling moods
While all can hear, none heed his neighbour's call-
None! save that One, the veriest wretch of all,
Who was not made to be the mate of these,
Nor bound between distraction and disease.
Feel I not wroth with those who placed me here?
Who have debased me in the minds of men,
Debarring me the usage of my own,
Blighting my life in best of its career,
Branding my thoughts as things to shun and fear?
Would I not pay them back these pangs again,
And teach them inward sorrow's stifled groan?
The struggle to be calm, and cold distress,
Which undermines our stoical success?
No!-still too proud to be vindictive-I
Have pardon'd princes' insults, and would die.
Yes, sister of my sovereign! for thy sake
I weed all bitterness from out my breast,
It hath no business where thou art a guest;

Thou pitiest not-but I can not forsake.


Look on a love which knows not to despair,
But all unquench'd is still my better part,
Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart
As dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud,
Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud,
Till struck,-forth flies the all-ethereal dart!
And thus at the collision of thy name
The vivid thought still flashes through my frame,
And for a moment all things as they were
Flit by me;-they are gone-I am the same.
And yet my love without ambition grew;
I knew thy state, my station, and I knew
A princess was no love-mate for a bard;
I told it not, I breathed it not, it was
Sufficient to itself, its own reward;
And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas!
Were punish'd by the silentness of thine,
And yet I did not venture to repine.
Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine,
Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around
Hallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground,
Not for thou wert a princess, but that love
Had robed thee with a glory, and array'd
Thy lineaments in beauty that dismay'd-
Oh! not dismay'd-but awed, like One above,
And in that sweet severity there was

A something which all softness did surpass-
I know not how-thy genius master'd mine--
My star stood still before thee:-if it were
Presumptuous thus to love without design,
That sad fatality hath cost me dear;
But thou art dearest still, and I should be
Fit for this cell, which wrongs me, but for thee.
The very love which lock'd me to my chain
Hath lighten'd half its weight; and for the rest,
Though heavy, lent me vigour to sustain,
And look to thee with undivided breast,
And foil the ingenuity of pain.


It is no marvel-from my very birth

My soul was drunk with love, which did pervade
And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth;
Of objects all inanimate I made

Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers,
And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise,
Where I did lay me down within the shade
Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours,
Though I was chid for wandering; and the wise
Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and sai
Of such materials wretched men were made,
And such a truant bey would end in woe,
And that the only lesson was a blow;
And then they smote me, and I did not weep,
But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt
Return'd and wept alone, and dream'd again
The visions which arise without a sleep.
And with my years my soul began to pant
With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain,
And the whole heart exhaled into one want,
But undefined, and wandering, till the day

I found the thing I sought-and that was thee;
And then I lost my being all to be
Absorb'd in thine-the world was past away-
Thou didst annihilate the earth to me!


I loved all solitude-but little thought
To spend I know not what of life, remote
From all communion with existence, save
The maniac and his tyrant; had I been
Their fellow, many years ere this had scen
My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave;

But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave?
Perchance in such a cell we suffer more
Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore;
The world is all before him-mine is here,
Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier.
What though he perish, he may lift his eye
And with a dying glance upbraid the sky-
I will not raise my own in such reproof,
Although 't is clouded by my dungeon roof.


Yet do I feel at times my mind decline,
But with a sense of its decay:-I see
Unwonted lights along my prison shine,
And a strange demon, who is vexing me
With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below
The feeling of the healthful and the free;
But much to one, who long hath suffer'd so,
Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place,
And all that may be borne, or can debase.
I thought mine enemies had been but man,
But spirits may be leagued with them-all earth
Abandons-Heaven forgets me ;-in the dearth
Of such defence the powers of evil can,
It may be, tempt me further, and prevail
Against the outworn creature they assail.
Why in this furnace is my spirit proved
Like stee! in tempering fire? because I loved!
Because I loved what not to love, and see,
Was more or less than mortal, and than me.


I once was quick in feeling-that is o'er ;-
My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd
My brain against these bars as the sun flash'd
In mockery through them;-if I bear and bore
The much I have recounted, and the more
Which hath no words, 't is that I would not die
And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie
Which snared me here, and with the brand of shame
Stamp madness deep into my memory,
And woo compassion to a blighted name,
Scaling the sentence which my foes proclaim.
No-it shall be immortal!-and I make
A future temple of my present cell,
Which nations yet shall visit for my sake.
While thou, Ferrara! when no longer dwell
The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down,
And crumbling piecemeal view thy hearthless hals,
A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown,
A poet's dungeon thy most far renown,
While strangers wonder o'cr thy unpeopled walls!
And thou, Leonora! thou-who wert ashamed
That such as I could love-who blush'd to hear
To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear,
Go! tell thy brother that my heart, untamed
By grief, years, weariness-and it may be
A taint of that he would impute to me,
From long infection of a den like this,
Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss,-
Adores thee still;-and add-that when the towers
And battlements which guard his joyous hours
Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot,
Or left untended in a dull repose,
This-this shall be a consecrated spot!
But thou-when all that birth and beauty throws
Of magic round thee is extinct-shalt have
One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave.
No power in death can tear our names apart,
As none in life could rend thee from my heart.
Yes, Leonora! it shall be our fate

To be entwined for ever-but too late!

Hebrew Melodies.


THE subsequent poems were written at the request of my friend, the Hon. D. Kinnaird, for a selection of Hebrew Melodies, and have been published, with the music, arranged by Mr. BRAHAM and Mr. NATHAN.


SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. SHF walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that check, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But teil of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent'



THE harp the monarch minstrel swept,
The king of men, the loved of Heaven,
Which Music hallow'd while she wept

O'er tones her heart of hearts had given.
Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven!
It soften'd men of iron mould,

It gave them virtues not their own;

No ear so dull, no soul so cold,

That felt not, fired not to the tone,

Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne!

It told the triumphs of our king,

It wafted our glory to our God;

It made our gladden'd valleys ring,

The cedars bow, the mountains nod;

Its sound aspired to heaven, and there abode ! Since then, though heard on earth no more, Devotion and her daughter Love

Still bid the bursting spirit soar

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To sounds that seem as from above,

In dreams that day's broad light can not remove.

But we must wander witheringly,
In other lands to die;
And where our fathers' ashes be,
Our own may never lie:

Our temple hath not left a stone,
And Mockery sits on Salem's throne.


OH! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream,
Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream;
Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell:
Mourn-where their God hath dwelt the godless dwell'

And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet?
And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet?
And Judah's melody once more rejoice
The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice?
Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast,
How shall ye flee away and be at rest?
The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave,
Mankind their country-Israel but the grave!

Ir that high world, which lies beyond
Our own, surviving love endears;
If there the cherish'd heart be fond,
The eye the same, except in tears-
How welcome those untrodden spheres!
How sweet this very hour to die!
To scar from carth, and find all fears
Lost in thy light-Eternity!

It must be so: 't is not for self
That we so tremble on the brink;
And striving to o'erleap the gulf,

Yet cling to being's severing link.
Oh! in that future let us think

To hold each heart the heart that shares, With them the immortal waters drink, And soul in soul grow deathless theirs!

THE wild gazelle on Judah's hills
Exulting yet may bound,
And drink from all the living rills
That gush on holy ground;
Its airy step and glorious eye

May glance in tameless transport by :

A step as fleet, an eye more bright,

Hath Judah witness'd there;

And o'er her scenes of lost delight

Inhabitants more fair.

The cedars wave on Lebanon,

But Judah's statelier maids are gone!

More blest each palm that shades those plains Than Israel's scatter'd race;

For, taking root, it there remains

In solitary grace:

It cannot quit its place of birth,
It will not live in other earth.


ON Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray,
On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray,
The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep-
Yet there-even there-Oh God! thy thunders swep.
There-where thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone'
There-where thy shadow to thy people shone!
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire:
Thyself-none living see and not expire!

Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear!

Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear:
How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod?
How long thy temple worshipless, Oh God?


SINCE our country, our God-Oh! my sire!
Demand that thy daughter expire;
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow-
Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now!

And the voice of my mourning is o'er,
And the mountains behold me no more:
If the hand that I love lay me low,
There cannot be pain in the blow!

And of this, oh, my father! be sure-
That the blood of thy child is as pure
As the blessing I beg ere it flow,

And the last thought that soothes me below

Though the virgins of Salem lament,
Be the judge and the hero unbent!

have won the great battle for thee, And my father and country are free!

When this blood of thy giving hath gush’4. When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd,

Let my memory still be thy pride,

And forget not I smiled as I died.

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