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Round all the confines of the yielded waist
The strangest hand may wander undisplaced';
The lady's in return may grasp as much
As princely paunches offer to her touch.
Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip,
One hand reposing on the royal hip;
The other to the shoulder no less royal
Ascending with affection truly loyal;
Thus front to front the partners move or stand,
The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand;
And all in turn may follow in their rank,
The Earl of Asterisk-and Lady-Blank;
Sir-such a one-with those of fashion's host,
For whose blest surnames-vide Morning Post'
(Or if for that impartial print too late,
Search Doctors'Commons six months from my date);
Thus all and each, in movement swift or slow,
The genial contact gently undergo;
Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk,
If' nothing follows all this palming work ?**
True, honest Mirza-you may trust my rhyme,
Something does follow at a fitter time;
The breast thus publicly resigned to man,
In private may resist him—if it can.

O ye! who loved our grandmothers of yore,
F-tzt-k, Sh-r-d-n, and many more!
And thou, my prince! whose sovereign taste and
It is to love the lovely beldames still ;

[will Thou ghost of Q- -! whose judging sprite Satan may spare to peep a single night, Pronounce-if ever in your days of bliss Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this; To teach the young ideas how to rise, Flush in the cheek, and languish in the eyes ;

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.-Vide Morier's Travelse,

Rush to the heart, and lighten through the frame,
With balf-told wish, and ill-dissembled fame;
For prurient nature still will storm the breast
Who, tempted thus, can answer for the rest ?

But ye_who never felt a single thought
For what our morals are to be or ought;
Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap,
Say-would you make those beauties quite so cheap?
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied,
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side;
Where were the rapture then to clasp the form,
From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm?
At once love's most endearing thought resign,
To press the hand so pressed by none but thine ;
To gaze upon that eye which never met
Another's ardent look without regret;
Approach the lip, which all, without restraint
Come near enough-if not to touch--to taint;
If such thou lovest-love her then no more,
Or give like ber-caresses to a score;
Her mind with these is gone, and with it go
The little left behind it to bestow.

Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blaspheme?
Thy bard forgot--thy praises were his theme.
TERPSICHORE forgive !-at every ball,
My wife now waltzes-and my daughters shall;
My son (or stop-'tis needless to inquire,
These little accidents should ne'er transpire ;
Some ages benee 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.

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TO JESSY. The following Stanzas were addressed to his Lady,

a few months before their separation. THERE is a mystic thread of life

So dearly wreath'd with mine alone, That Destiny's relentless knife

At once must sever both or none. There is a form on which these eyes

Have often gazed with fond delight By day that form their joy supplies,

And dreams restore it through the night. There is a voice whose tones inspire

Such thrills of rapture through my breastI would not hear a seraph choir

Unless that voice could join the rest. There is a face whose blushes tell

Affection's tale upon the cheekBut pallid at one fond farewell,

Proclaims more love than words can speakThere is a lip, which mine hath prest,

And none had ever prest before; It vowed to make me sweetly blest,

And mine-mine only, prest it more. There is a bosom—all my own

Hath pillow'd oft this aching head; A mouth which smiles on me alone,

An eye whose tears with mine are shed. There are two hearts whose movements thrill

In unison so closely sweet;
That, pulse to pulse responsive still,

That both must heave-or cease to beat.
There are two souls whose equal flow

In gentle streams so calmly run,
That when they part-they part !-ah, no!

They cannot part-those souls are one.

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THE FOLLOWING LINES Were written extempore to his friend T. Moore, Esq.

the author of Lalla Rookh.
My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea;
But, before I

Here's a double health to thee.
Here's a sigh to those who love me,

And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky's above me.

Here's a heart for every fate.
Tho' the ocean roar around me,

Yet it still shall bear me on;
w", Tho' a desert should surround me,

It hath springs that may be won.
Were't the last drop in the well,

As I gasp'd upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,

"Tis to thee that I would drink.
In that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour
Should be-Peace to thine and mine,

And a health to thee, TOM MOORE!

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Addressed to Mr. Hobhouse on his Election

for Westminster.

MORS JANUA VITÆ. WOULD you get to the house thro' the true gate,

Much quicker than ever Whig Charley went, Let Parliament send you to NewgateAnd Newgate will send you to-Parlianient.

Il sjang '



ADIEU TO MALTA. ADIEU, the joys of La Valette ; Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat; Adieu, thou palace, rarely entered; Adieu, ye mansions, where I've ventured ; Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs-How surely he who mounts them swears! Adieu, ye merchants, often failing; Adieu, thou mob, for ever railing ; Adieu, ye packets without letters; Adieu, ye fools, who ape your betters ; Adieu, thou damn'dest quarantine, That gave me fever and the spleen; ? Adieu, that stage which makes us yawn, sirs; Adieu, his excellency's dancers; Adieu, to Peter, whom no fault's in, But could not teach a colonel waltzing ; Adieu, ye females, fraught with graces; Adieu, red coats, and redder faces; Adieu, the supercilious air, Of all that strut en militaire; I gombut God knows where or whyTo smoky towns and cloudy sky; To things, the honest truth to say, As bad, but in a different way: Farewell to these, but not adieu Triumphant sons of truest blue, While either Adriatic shore, And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more, And nightly smiles, and daily dinners, Proclaim you war and women's winners. Ju Pardon my musé, who apt to prate is, ir And take my rhyme because 'tis gratis: 10 And now I've got to Mrs. FRASER, ILL! Perhaps you think I mean to praise her;

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