And, though there ne'er was rapture given

Like Psyche's with that radiant boy, Hers is the only face in heaven

That wears a cloud amid its joy.

FROM THE FRENCH. Of all the men one meets about,

There's none like Jack-he's every where : At church-park-auction-dinner-rout

Go when and where you will, he's there. Try the West End, he's at your back

Meets you, like Eurus, in the EastYou 're call’d upon for “How do, Jack ?"

One hundred times a-day, at least. A friend of his one evening said,

As home he took his pensive way, “Upon my soul, I fear Jack's dead

I've seen him but three times to-day!"

Whoe'er was in, whoe'er was out

Whatever statesmen did or said If not exactly brought about,

Was all, at least, contrived by Ned. With Nap if Russia went to war,

'T was owing, under Providence, To certain hints Ned gave the Czar

(Vide his pamphlet-price six pence.) If France was beat at Waterloo

As all, but Frenchmen, think she wasTo Ned, as Wellington well knew,

Was owing half that day's applause. Then for his news no envoy's bag

E’er pass'd so many secrets through itScarcely a telegraph could wag

Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots,

With foreign names one's ear to buzz inFrom Russia chefs and ofs in lots,

From Poland owskis by the dozen.

ROMANCE.
I HAVE a story of two lovers, fillid

With all the pure romance, the blissful sadness
And the sad doubtful bliss, that ever thrill'd
Two young and longing hearts in that sweet mad-

ness; But where to choose the locale of my vision

In this wide vulgar world—what real spot Can be found out, sufficiently elysian

For two such perfect lovers, I know not.

When GEORGE, alarm'd for England's creed,

Turn'd out the last Whig ministry, And men ask'd—who advised the deed ?

Ned modestly confess'd 't was he. For though, by some unlucky miss,

He had not downright seen the King,

“Courage !" however in she goes,

With her best sweeping country grace; When, ah! too true, her worst of foes,

Quadrille, there meets her, face to face.

He sent such hints through Viscount This,

To Marquis That, as clench'd the thing. The same it was in science, arts,

The drama, books, MS. and printedKean learn'd from Ned his cleverest parts,

And Scott's last work by him was hinted. Childe Harold in the proofs he read,

And, here and there, infused some soul in'tNay, Davy's lamp, till seen by Ned,

Had-odd enough-a dangerous hole in 't. 'T was thus, all doing and all knowing,

Wit, statesman, boxer, chemist, singer, Whatever was the best pie going,

In that Ned—trust him—had his finger.

Oh for the lyre, or violin,

Or kit of that gay Muse, Terpsichore, To sing the rage these nymphs were in,

Their looks and language, airs and trickery! There stood Quadrille, with cat-like face

(The beau ideal of French beauty,) A band-box thing, all art and lace,

Down from her nose-tip to her shoe-tie.

*

*

*

*

Her flounces, fresh from Victorine

From Hippolyte her rouge and hairHer poetry, from Lamartine

Her morals from—the Lord knows where.

And, when she danced—so slidingly,

So near the ground she plied her art, You'd swear her mother-earth and she

Had made a compact ne'er to part. Her face the while, demure, sedate,

No signs of life or motion showing, Like a bright pendule's dial-plate

So still, you'd hardly think 't was going.

COUNTRY-DANCE AND QUADRILLE. ONE night, the nymph call'd Country-Dance

Whom folks, of late, have used so ill, Preferring a coquette from France,

A mincing thing, Mamselle QuadrilleHaving been chased from London down

To that last, humblest haunt of all She used to grace-a country-town

Went smiling to the new year's ball. “Here, here, at least," she cried, “though driven

From London's gay and shining tracksThough, like a Peri cast from heaven,

I've lost, for ever lost Almack's “Though not a London Miss alive

Would now for her acquaintance own me; And spinsters, even of forty-five,

Upon their honours ne'er have known me:

a

Full fronting her stood Country-Dance

fresh, frank nymph, whom you would know For English, at a single glance

English all o'er, from top to toe. A little gauche, 't is fair to own,

And rather given to skips and bounces; Endangering thereby many a gown,

And playing oft the devil with flounces. Unlike Mamselle—who would prefer

(As morally a lesser ill) A thousand flaws in character,

To one vile rumple of a frill. No rouge did she of Albion wear;

Let her but run that two-heat race She calls a Set-not Dian e'er

Came rosier from the woodland chase.

Here, here, at least, I triumph still,

And-spite of some few dandy lancers, Who vainly try to preach quadrille

See nought but true-blue country-dancers. “Here still I reign, and, fresh in charms,

My throne, like Magna Charta, raise, 'Mong sturdy, free-born legs and arms,

That scorn the threaten'd chaine Anglaise." 'T was thus she said, as, 'mid the din

Of footmen, and the town sedan, She lighted at the King's-Head Inn,

And up the stairs triumphant ran. The squires and the squiresses all,

With young squirinas, just come out, And my lord's daughters from the Hall

(Quadrillers, in their hearts, no doubt,) Already, as she tripp'd up stairs,

She in the cloak-room saw assemblingWhen, hark! some new outlandish airs,

From the first fiddle, set her trembling. She stops-she listens—can it be?

Alas! in vain her ears would 'scape itIt is “ Di tanti palpiti,"

As plain as English bow can scrape it.

And such the nymph, whose soul had in 't

Such anger now—whose eyes of blue (Eyes of that bright victorious tint

Which English maids call “ Waterloo,") Like summer lightnings, in the dusk

Of a warm evening, flashing broke, While-to the tune of “Money Musk,"1

Which struck up now—she proudly spoke “Heard you that strain—that joyous strain ?

"T was such as England loved to hear, Ere thou, and all thy frippery train,

Corrupted both her foot and ear“Ere Waltz, that rake from foreign lands,

Presumed, in sight of all beholders,

1 An old English country.dance.

For martial men who on their sword,

Howe'er it conquers, wear not The Pledges of a soldier's word,

Redeem'd and pure—we care not.

For legal men who plead for wrong,

And, though to lies they swear not, Are not more honest than the throng

Of those who do we care not.

" Ah, did you know how bless'd we ranged,

Ere vile QUADRILLE usurp'd the fiddleWhat looks in setting were exchanged,

What tender words in down the middle ! “How many a couple, like the wind,

Which nothing in its course controls, Left time and chaperons far behind,

And gave a loose to legs and souls ! “How matrimony throve—ere stopp'd

By this cold, silent, foot-coquettingHow charmingly one's partner popp'd

The important question in poussette-ing! “While now, alas, no sly advances

No marriage hints—all goes on badly: 'Twixt Parson Malthus and French dances,

We girls are at a discount sadly.

For courtly men who feed upon

The land like grubs, and spare not The smallest leaf where they can sun

Their reptile limbs—we care not.

For wealthy men who keep their mines

In darkness hid, and share not The paltry ore with him who pines

In honest want-we care not.

For prudent men who keep the power

Of Love aloof, and bare not Their hearts in any guardless hour

To Beauty's shafts—we care not.

“ Sir William Scott (now Baron Stowell)

Declares not half so much is made By licences—and he must know well

Since vile Quadrilling spoil'd the trade." She ceased-tears fell from every Miss

She now had touch'd the true pathetic :One such authentic fact as this,

Is worth whole volumes theoretic.

For secret men who, round the bowl

In friendship's circle, tear not The cloudy curtain from their soul,

But draw it close-we care not.

Instant the cry was “ COUNTRY-DANCE!"

And the maid saw, with brightening face,

For all, in short, on land and sea,

In court and camp, who are not, Who never were, nor e'er will be

Good men and true-we care not

1 Another old English country-dance.