SONGS FROM M. P.; OR, THE BLUE-STOCKING. 657 From the trumpet of Glory would wake him. CUPID'S LOTTERY. A LOTTERY, a Lottery, In Cupid's Court there used to be; In Cupid's scheming Lottery; As good as new, Which weren't very hard to win, For he, who won The eyes of fun, Was sure to have the kisses in. This Lottery, this Lottery, A Jewish trade In this his scheming Lottery; In shares he sold To many a fond believing drone, And cut the hearts So well in parts, That each believed the whole his own. Ar night, when all is still around, Of footstep, coming soft and light! And then, at night, how sweet to say With those we love exchanged at night! TO LADY HOLLAND. ON NAPOLEON'S LEGACY OF A SNUFF-BOX. GIFT of the Hero, on his dying day, To her, whose pity watch'd, forever nigh; Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray, This relic lights up in her generous eye, Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to pay A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy Paris, July, 1821. 1 Sung in the character of a Frenchman EPILOGUE. WRITTEN FOR LADY DACRE'S TRAGEDY OF INA LAST night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat, 66 Bless me!" I starting cried, "what imp you?" "A small he-devil, Maʼam—my name Bas BL5"A bookish sprite, much giv'n to routs and read ing; Here, curtseying low, I ask'd the blue-legg'd sprite, What share he had in this our play to-night. "Nay, there-(he cried)—there I am guiltless quite "What! choose a heroine from that Gothic time, "When no one waltz'd, and none but monks could rhyme; "When lovely woman all unschool'd and wild, "Blush'd without art, and without culture smiled"Simple as flowers, while yet unclass'd they shone, "Ere Science call'd their brilliant world her own, "Ranged the wild, rosy things in learned orders, "And fill'd with Greek the garden's blushing borders! "No, no-your gentle Inas will not do"To-morrow evening, when the lights burn blue, “I'll come-(pointing downwards)—you understand-til then adieu!" And has the sprite been here? No-jests apartHowe'er man rules in science and in art, The sphere of woman's glories is the heart. And, if our Muse have sketch'd with pencil true The wife-the mother-firm, yet gentle tooWhose soul, wrapp'd up in ties itself hath spun, Trembles, if touch'd in the remotest one; Who loves-yet dares even Love himself disown, When Honor's broken shaft supports his throne; If such our Ina, she may scorn the evils, Dire as they are, of Critics and Blue Devils. 1 In these stanzas I have done little more than relate a fact in verse; and the lady, whose singing gave rise to this At length, one morning, as I lay In that half-waking mood, when dreams Unwillingly at last give way To the full truth of daylight's beams, A face-the very face, methought, From which had breathed, as from a shrine Of song and soul, the notes I sought Came with its music close to mine; And sung the long-lost measure o'er, Each note and word, with every tone And look, that lent it life before, All perfect, all again my own! Like parted souls, when, mid the Blest curious instance of the power of memory in sleep, is Mrs. Robert Arkwright. For sometimes, in repose, she hid Their rays beneath a downcast lid; And then again, with wakening air, Would send their sunny glances out, Like heralds of delight, to bear Her heart's sweet messages about THE DREAM OF THE TWO SISTERS FROM DANTE. Ne!! cra, credo, che dell' oriente Prima raggiò nel monte Citerea, Che di fuoco d' amor par sempre ardente, DANTE, Purg. canto xxvii. SOVEREIGN WOMAN. A BALLAD. THE dance was o'er, yet still in dreams Like clouds still flush'd with daylight gleams, Though day itself is gone. And gracefully, to music's sound, The same bright nymphs went gliding round; While thou, the Queen of all, wert thereThe Fairest still, where all were fair. The dream then changed-in halls of state, But, lo, the scene now changed again- I saw thee o'er the battle-plain Nor reign such queens on thrones alone- For though she almost blush to reign, Though Love's own flow'rets wreath the chain, Disguise our bondage as we will, "Tis woman, woman, rules us still. COME, PLAY ME THAT SIMPLE AIR AGAIN. A BALLAD. COME, play me that simple air again, I used so to love, in life's young day, The tender gloom its strain Say where, where is it now? |