The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 132

WHAT SHALL I SING THEE?

TO ----.

What shall I sing thee? Shall I tell Of that bright hour, remembered well As tho' it shone but yesterday,

When loitering idly in the ray Of a spring sun I heard o'er-head, My name as by some spirit said, And, looking up, saw two bright eyes Above me from a cas.e.m.e.nt s.h.i.+ne, Dazzling my mind with such surprise As they, who sail beyond the Line, Feel when new stars above them rise;-- And it was thine, the voice that spoke, Like Ariel's, in the mid-air then; And thine the eye whose l.u.s.tre broke-- Never to be forgot again!

What shall I sing thee? Shall I weave A song of that sweet summer-eve, (Summer, of which the sunniest part Was that we, each, had in the heart,) When thou and I, and one like thee, In life and beauty, to the sound Of our own breathless minstrelsy.

Danced till the sunlight faded round, Ourselves the whole ideal Ball, Lights, music, company, and all?

Oh, 'tis not in the languid strain Of lute like mine, whose day is past, To call up even a dream again Of the fresh light those moments cast.

COUNTRY DANCE AND QUADRILLE.

One night the nymph called country dance-- (Whom folks, of late, have used so ill, Preferring a coquette from France, That mincing thing, _Mamselle_ quadrille)--

Having been chased from London down To that most humble haunt of all She used to grace--a Country Town-- Went smiling to the New-Year's Ball.

"Here, here, at least," she cried, tho' driven "From London's gay and s.h.i.+ning tracks-- "Tho', like a Peri cast from heaven, "I've lost, for ever lost, Almack's--

"Tho' not a London Miss alive "Would now for her acquaintance own me; "And spinsters, even, of forty-five, "Upon their honors ne'er have known me;

"Here, here, at least, I triumph still, "And--spite of some few dandy Lancers.

"Who vainly try to preach Quadrille-- "See naught but _true-blue_ Country Dancers,

"Here still I reign, and, fresh in charms, "My throne, like Magna Charta, raise "'Mong st.u.r.dy, free-born legs and arms, "That scorn the threatened _chaine anglaise_."

'Twas 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 their Squiresses all, With young Squirinas, just _come out_, And my Lord's daughters from the Hall, (Quadrillers in their hearts no doubt,)--

All these, as light she tript upstairs, Were in the cloak-room seen a.s.sembling-- When, 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 it-- It _is "Di tanti palpiti"_ As plain as English bow can sc.r.a.pe it.

"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.

Oh for the lyre, or violin, Or kit of that gay Muse, Terpsich.o.r.e, 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 hair-- Her 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 too, all the while, sedate, No signs of life or motion showing.

Like a bright _pendule's_ dial-plate-- So still, you'd hardly think 'twas _going_.

Full fronting her stood Country Dance-- A fresh, frank nymph, whom you would know For English, at a single glance-- English all o'er, from top to toe.

A little _gauche_, 'tis 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 of 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.

Such was 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, flas.h.i.+ng broke.

While--to the tune of "Money Musk,"[1]

Which struck up now--she proudly spoke--

"Heard you that strain--that joyous strain?

"'Twas 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, "To lay his rude, licentious hands "On virtuous English backs and shoulders--

"Ere times and morals both grew bad, "And, yet unfleeced by funding block-heads, "Happy John Bull not only _had_, "But danced to, 'Money in both pockets.'

"Alas, the change!--Oh, Londonderry, "Where is the land could 'scape disasters, "With _such_ a Foreign Secretary, "Aided by Foreign Dancing Masters?

"Woe to ye, men of s.h.i.+ps and shops!

"Rulers of day-books and of waves!

"Quadrilled, on one side, into fops, "And drilled, on t'other, into slaves!

"Ye, too, ye lovely victims, seen, "Like pigeons, trussed for exhibition, "With elbows, _a la c.r.a.paudine_, "And feet, in--G.o.d knows what position;

"Hemmed in by watchful chaperons, "Inspectors of your airs and graces, "Who intercept all whispered tones, "And read your telegraphic faces;

"Unable with the youth adored, "In that grim _cordon_ of Mammas, "To interchange one tender word, "Tho' whispered but in _queue-de-chats_.

"Ah did you know how blest we ranged, "Ere vile Quadrille usurpt the fiddle-- "What looks in _setting_ were exchanged, "What tender words in _down the middle_;