I've had a dream that bodes no good
Unto the Holy Brotherhood.

I may be wrong, but I confess

As far as it is right or lawful For one, no conjuror, to guess—

It seems to me extremely awful.

Methought, upon the Neva's flood
A beautiful Ice Palace stood;

VOL. VIII.

5

A dome of frost-work, on the plan

Of that once built by Empress Anne,*

Which shone by moonlight-as the tale is—
Like an aurora borealis.

In this said palace-furnish'd all

And lighted as the best on land are—
I dream'd there was a splendid ball,
Given by the Emperor Alexander,
To entertain, with all due zeal,
Those holy gentlemen who've shown a
Regard so kind for Europe's weal,
At Troppau, Laybach, and Verona.

The thought was happy, and design'd
To hint how thus the human mind
May-like the stream imprison'd there-
Be check'd and chill'd till it can bear
The heaviest Kings, that ode or sonnet
E'er yet be-praised, to dance upon it.

"It is well known that the Empress Anne built a palace of ice, on the Neva, in 1740, which was fifty-two feet in length, and when illuminated had a surprising effect.”—PIN

KERTON.

And all were pleased, and cold, and stately,
Shivering in grand illumination-
Admired the superstructure greatly,

Nor gave one thought to the foundation. Much too the Czar himself exulted, To all plebeian fears a stranger, As Madame Krudener, when consulted, Had pledged her word there was no danger. So, on he caper'd, fearless quite,

Thinking himself extremely clever, And waltz'd away with all his might, As if the frost would last for ever.

Just fancy how a bard like me,

Who reverence monarchs, must have trembled,

To see that goodly company

At such a ticklish sport assembled.

Nor were the fears, that thus astounded
My loyal soul, at all unfounded;

For, lo! ere long, those walls so massy

Were seized with an ill-omen'd dripping, And o'er the floors, now growing glassy,

Their Holinesses took to slipping.

The Czar, half through a Polonaise,

Could scarce get on for downright stumbling, And Prussia, though to slippery ways

So used, was cursedly near tumbling.

Yet still 'twas who could stamp the floor most,
Russia and Austria 'mong the foremost.
And now, to an Italian air,

This precious brace would hand in hand go; Now-while old ******, from his chair, Intreated them his toes to spare—

Call'd loudly out for a fandango.

And a fandango, 'faith, they had,
At which they all set to like mad-
Never were Kings (though small th' expense is
Of wit among their Excellencies)

So out of all their princely senses.

But, ah! that dance-that Spanish dance-
Scarce was the luckless strain begun,
When, glaring red—as 't were a glance
Shot from an angry southern sun—

A light through all the chambers flamed,
Astonishing old Father Frost,

Who, bursting into tears, exclaim'd,

"A thaw, by Jove!-we're lost, we're lost! “Run, F——! a second Waterloo

“Is come to drown you-sauve qui peut !"

Why, why will monarchs caper so
In palaces without foundations?
Instantly all was in a flow:

Crowns, fiddles, sceptres, decorations;
Those royal arms, that look'd so nice,
Cut out in the resplendent ice;

Those eagles, handsomely provided

With double heads for double dealingsHow fast the globes and sceptres glided Out of their claws on all the ceilings! Proud Prussia's double bird of prey, Tame as a spatch-cock, slunk away; While-just like France herself, when she

Proclaims how great her naval skill is— Poor ******* drowning fleurs-de-lys

Imagined themselves water-lilies.