"And, when the waltz has twirl'd her giddy brain, "With metaphysics twirl it back again!"

I view'd him, as he spoke-his hose were blue,
His wings- the covers of the last Review-
Cerulean, border'd with a jaundice hue,

And tinsell'd gaily o'er, for evening wear,

Till the next quarter brings a new-fledg'd pair.

66

Inspir'd by me-(pursued this waggish Fairy)— "That best of wives and Sapphos, Lady Mary,

66

Votary alike of Crispin and the Muse,

"Makes her own splay-foot epigrams and shoes. "For me the eyes of young Camilla shine,

"And mingle Love's blue brilliances with mine; "For me she sits apart, from coxcombs shrinking, "Looks wise-the pretty soul!—and thinks she's thinking.

66

By my advice Miss Indigo attends

"Lectures on Memory, and assures her friends, "'Pon honour!-(mimics)-nothing can surpass

the plan

"Of that professor-(trying to recollect)-psha!

that memory-man

"That-what's his name?-him I attended lately""'Pon honour, he improv'd my memory greatly."

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 smil'd—

Simple as flowers, while yet unclass'd they shone, "Ere Science call'd their brilliant world her own, "Rang'd 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 -till 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 too
Whose 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 Honour's broken shaft supports his throne :
If such our Ina, she may scorn the evils,
Dire as they are, of Critics and-Blue Devils.

THE DAY-DREAM.*

THEY both were hush'd, the voice, the chords,-
I heard but once that witching lay;

And few the notes, and few the words,
My spell-bound memory brought away;

Traces, remember'd here and there,
Like echoes of some broken strain

Links of a sweetness lost in air,

That nothing now could join again.

Ev'n these, too, ere the morning, fled;
And, though the charm still linger'd on,
That o'er each sense her song had shed,
The song itself was faded, gone;-

* In these stanzas I have done little more than relate a fact in verse; and the lady, whose singing gave rise to this curious instance of the power of memory in sleep, is Mrs. Robert Arkwright.

Gone, like the thoughts that once were ours, On summer days, ere youth had set; Thoughts bright, we know, as summer flowers, Though what they were, we now forget.

In vain, with hints from other strains,
I woo'd this truant air to come-
As birds are taught, on eastern plains,
To lure their wilder kindred home.

In vain :- the song that Sappho gave,
In dying, to the mournful sea,
Not muter slept beneath the wave,
Than this within my memory.

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 breath'd, as from a shrine Of song and soul, the notes I sought

Came with its music close to mine;