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For her they leave the wand'ring flocks to rove, Whilst Fanny's name resounds through every grove,

And spreads on every tree, enclos'd in knots of love;

As Fielding's now, her eyes all hearts inflame,
Like her in beauty as alike in name.
"Twas when the summer's sun, now mounted
high,

With fiercer beams had scorch'd the glowing
Beneath the covert of a cooling shade, [sky,
To shun the heat this lovely nymph was laid:
The sultry weather o'er her cheeks had spread
A blush that added to her native red,
And her fair breast, as polish'd marble white,
Was half conceal'd and half expos'd to sight:

olus, mighty god whom winds obey,
Observ'd the beauteous maid as thus she lay,
O'er all her charms he gaz'd with fond delight,
And suck'd in poison at the dangerous sight.
He sighs, he burns, at last declares his pain,
But still he sighs, and still he wooes in vain;
The cruel nymph, regardless of his moan,
Minds not his flame, uneasy with her own,
But still complains that he who rul'd the air,
Would not command one zephyr to repair
Around her face; nor gentle breeze to play
Through the dark vale, to soothe the sultry day.
By love incited, and the hopes of joy,
Th' ingenious god contriv'd this pretty toy,
With gales incessant to relieve her flame;
And call'd it Fan, from lovely Fanny's name.

CANTO II.

Now see, prepar'd to lead the sprightly dance, The lovely nymphs and well-dress'd youths advance;

The spacious room receives its jovial guest, And the floor shakes with pleasing weight oppress'd;

Thick rang'd on every side, with various dies,
The fair in glossy silks our sight surprise:
So in a garden bath'd with genial show'rs,
A thousand sorts of variegated flow'rs,
Jonquils, carnations, pinks, and tulips rise,
And in a gay confusion charm our eyes.
High o'er their heads with num'rous candles
bright,

Large sconces shed their sparkling beams of light,

Their sparkling beams that still more brightly How,

Reflected back from gems and eyes below. Unnumber'd fans to cool the crowded fair, With breathing zephyrs, move the circling air. The sprightly fiddle, and the sounding lyre, Each youthful breast with gen'rous warmth inspire;

Fraught with all joys, the blissful moments fly, Whilst music melts the ear, and beauty charms the eye.

Now let the youth to whose superior place It first belongs the splendid ball to grace, With humble bow, and ready hand prepare, Forth from the crowd to lead his chosen fair; The fair shall not his kind regard deny, But to the pleasing toil with ardor fly.

But stay, rash pair, nor yet untaught advance,
First hear the muse ere you attempt to dance.
By art directed, o'er the foaming tide
Secure from rocks the painted vessels glide;
By art the chariot scours the dusty plain,
Springs at the whip, and hears the straight'ning
reint;

To art our bodies must obedient prove,
If e'er we hope with graceful ease to move.

Long was the dancing art unfix'd and free,
Hence lost in error and uncertainty;
No precepts did it mind, or rules obey,
But ev'ry master taught a different way:
Hence, ere each new-born dance was fully tried,
The lovely product, e'en in blooming, died.
Through various hands in wild confusion toss'd,
Its steps were alter'd, and its beauties lost;
Till Fuillet, the pride of Gallia, rose,
And did the dance in characters compose;
Each lovely grace by certain marks he taught,
And every step in lasting volumes wrote:
Hence o'er the world this pleasing art shall
spread,

And ev'ry dance in ev'ry clime be read;
By distant masters shall each step be seen,
Though mountains rise, and oceans roar be-

tween :

Hence with her sister arts shall Dancing claim
An equal right to universal fame;
And Isaac's rigadoon shall live as long
As Raphael's painting, or as Virgil's song.
Wise Nature ever with a prudent hand
Dispenses various gifts to ev'ry land,
To every nation frugally imparts
A genius fit for some peculiar arts.
To trade the Dutch incline, the Swiss to arms,
Music and verse are soft Italia's charms :
Britannia justly glories to have found
Land unexplor'd, and sail'd the globe around:
But none will sure presume to rival France,
Whether she forms or executes the dance;
To her exalted genius 'tis we owe
The sprightly Rigadoon, and Louvre slow;
The Borée, and Courant, unpractis'd long,
Th' immortal Minuet, and the smooth Bre-

tagne,

With all the dances of illustrious fame,
That from their native country take their name;
With these let ev'ry ball be first begun,
Nor country-dance intrude 'till these are done.

Each cautious bard, ere he attempts to sing,
First gently flutt'ring tries his tender wing,
And if he finds that with uncommon fire
The muses all his raptur'd soul inspire,
At once to heaven he soars in lofty odes,
And sings alone of heroes and of gods:

* Arte citæ veloque rates remoque moventur,
Arte leves currus.

+-Nec audit currus habenas.

Fuillet wrote the Art of Dancing by Characters, in French, since translated by Weaver.

But if he trembling fears a flight so high,
He then descends to softer elegy;
And if in elegy he can't succeed,

In past'ral he may tune the oaten reed.

So should the dancer ere he tries to move, With care his strength, and weight, and genius prove;

Then if he finds kind nature's gifts impart
Endowments proper for the dancing art,
If in himself he finds together join'd
An active body and ambitious mind,
In nimble Rigadoons he may advance,
Or in the Louvre's slow majestic dance :
If these he fears to reach with easy pace,
Let him the minuet's circling mazes trace:
Is this too hard, this too let him forbear,
And to the country-dance confine his care.
Would you in dancing ev'ry fault avoid,
To keep true time be first your thoughts em-
ploy'd;

All other errors they in vain shall mend,
Who in this one important point offend;
For this, when now united hand in hand,
Eager to start the youthful couple stand,
Let them a while their nimble feet restrain,
And with soft taps beat time to every strain:
So for the race prepar'd two coursers stand,
And with impatient pawings spurn the sand.
In vain a master shall employ his care,
Where nature once has fix'd a clumsy air;
Rather let such, to country sports confin'd,
Pursue the flying hare, or tim'rous hind:
Nor yet, while I the rural squire despise,
A mien effeminate would I advise;
With equal scorn I would the fop deride,
Nor let him dance-but on the woman's side.
And you, fair nymphs, avoid with equal care
A stupid dullness, and a coquet air.
Neither with eyes that ever love the ground,
Asleep, like spinning tops, run round and round;
Nor yet with giddy looks, and wanton pride,
Stare all around, and skip from side to side.
True dancing, like true wit, is best express'd
By nature only, to advantage dress'd;
'Tis not a nimble bound, or caper high,
That can pretend to please a curious eye;
Good judges no such tumbler's tricks regard,
Or think them beautiful because they're hard:
'Tis not enough that every stander-by
No glaring errors in your steps can spy;
The dance and music must so nicely meet,
Each note should seem an echo to your feet;
A nameless grace must in each movement
dwell,

Which words can ne'er express, or precepts tell;

Not to be taught, but ever to be seen In Flavia's air, and Chloe's easy mien : "Tis such an air that makes her thousands fall, When Fielding dances at a birth-night ball: Smooth as Camilla she skims o'er the plain, And flies like her through clouds of heroes slain.

Now when the minuet, oft repeated o'er, (Like all terrestrial joys) can please no more, And ev'ry nymph refusing to expand

Her charms, declines the circulating hand,

Then let the jovial country-dance begin,
And the loud fiddles call each straggler in ;
But ere they come, permit me to disclose
How first, as legends tell, this pastime rose :-~
In ancient times (such times are now no

more)

When Albion's crown illustrious Arthur wore,
In some fair opening glade each summer's night,
Where the pale moon diffus'd her silver light,
On the soft carpet of a grassy field,

The sporting fairies their assemblies held:
Some lightly tripping with their pigmy queen,
In circling ringlets mark'd their level green;
Some with soft notes bade mellow pipes resound,
And music warbled through the groves around:
Oft lonely shepherds by the forest side,
Belated peasants oft, their revels spied,
And home returning, o'er the nut-brown ale
Their guest diverted with the wondrous tale.
Instructed hence, throughout the British isle,
And fond to imitate the pleasing toil,
Round where the trembling May-pole's fix'd
on high,

And bears its flow'ry honors to the sky,
The ruddy maids and sun-burnt swains resort,
And practise ev'ry night the lovely sport.
On ev'ry side Æolian artists stand,
Whose active elbows swelling winds command;
The swelling winds harmonious pipes inspire,
And blow in ev'ry breast a gen'rous fire.

Thus taught at first the country-dance began,
And hence to cities and to courts it ran;
Succeeding ages did in time impart
Various improvements to the lovely art:
From fields and groves to palaces remov'd,
Great ones the pleasing exercise approv'd:
Hence the loud fiddle and shrill trumpet's

sounds

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Then art did all the bright machines dispose,
And theatres of Parian marble rose;
Then mimic thunder shook the canvas sky,
And gods descended from their towers on high.

With caution now let ev'ry youth prepare
To choose a partner from the mingled fair:
Vain would be here th' instructing muse's voice,
If she pretended to direct his choice:
Beauty alone by fancy is express'd,

And charms in diff'rent forms each diff'rent breast:

A snowy skin this am'rous youth admires, Whilst nut-brown cheeks another's bosom fires: Small waist and slender limbs some hearts in

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But let not outward charms your judgement | Now here, now there, they whirl along the sky,

sway,

Your reason rather than your eyes obey,
And in the dance, as in the marriage noose,
Rather for merit than for beauty choose':
Be her your choice, who knows with perfect
skill

When she should move, and when she should be still:

Who uninstructed can perform her share,
And kindly half the pleasing burthen bear.
Unhappy is that hopeless wretch's fate
Who, fetter'd in the matrimonial state,
With a poor, simple, unexperienc'd wife,
Is forc'd to lead the tedious dance of life;
And such is his, with such a partner join'd,
A moving puppet, but without a mind :
Still must his hand be pointing out the way,
Yet ne'er can teach so fast as she can stray;
Beneath her follies he must ever groan,
And ever blush for errors not his own.

But now behold, united hand in hand, Rang'd on each side the well-pair'd couple stand,

Each youthful bosom beating with delight,
Waits the brisk signal for the pleasing sight;
While lovely eyes that flash unusual rays,
And snowy bosoms seen above the stays,
Quick busy hands and bridling heads declare
The fond impatience of the starting fair.
And see, the sprightly dance is now begun!
Now here, now there, the giddy maze they run ;
Now with slow steps they pace the circling ring,
Now all confus'd too swift for sight they spring:
So in a wheel with rapid fury toss'd,
The undistinguish'd spokes are in the motion

lost.

The dancer here no more requires a guide,
To no strict steps his nimble feet are tied;
The inuse's precepts here would useless be,
Where all is fancied, unconfin'd, and free.
Let him but to the music's voice attend,
By this instructed he can ne'er offend.
If to his share it falls the dance to lead,
In well-known paths he may be sure to tread;
If others lead let him their motions view,
And in their steps the winding maze pursue.
In every country-dance a serious mind
Turn'd for reflection, can a moral find.
In Hunt-the-squirrel, thus the nymph we view,
Seeks when we fly, but flies when we pursue:
Thus in round dances, where our partners
change,

And unconfin'd from fair to fair we range,
As soon as one from his own consort flies,
Another seizes on the lovely prize;

A while the fav'rite youth enjoys her charms,
Till the next comer steals her from his arms;
New ones succeed, the last is still her care :
How true an emblem of th' inconstant fair!

Where can philosophers and sages wise,
Who read the curious volumes of the skies,
A model more exact than dancing name,
Of the creation's universal frame?
Where worlds unnumber'd o'er th' ethereal
way,

In a bright regular confusion stray;

Now near approach, and now far distant fly:
Now meet in the same order they begun,
And then the great celestial dance is done.
Where can the moralist find a juster plan
Of the vain labors of the life of man?
A while through justling crowds we toil and

sweat,

And eagerly pursue we know not what;
Then, when our trifling short-liv'd race is run,
Quite tir'd, sit down just where we have begun.
Though to your arms kind fate's indulgent
Has giv'n a partner exquisitely fair, [care
Let not her charms so much engage your heart,
That you neglect the skilful dancer's part;
Be not, when you the tuneful notes should hear,
Still whispering idle prattle in her ear;
When you should be employ'd be not at play,
Nor for your joys all others' steps delay:
But when the finish'd dance you once have done,
And with applause through every couple run,
There rest a while: there snatch the fleeting
bliss,

The tender whisper, and the balmy kiss;
Each secret wish, each softer hope confess,
And her moist palm with easy fingers press:
With smiles the fair shall hear your warm de-
sires,

When music melts her soul, and dancing fires.
Thus mix'd with love, the pleasing toil pursue
Till the unwelcome morn appears in view;
Then when approaching day its beams displays,
And the dull candle shines with fainter rays,
Then when the sun just rises o'er the deep,
And each bright eye is almost set in sleep,
With ready hands, obsequious youths, prepare,
Safe to her coach to lead each chosen fair,
And guard her from the morn's inclement air:
Let a warm hood enwrap her lovely head,
And o'er her neck a handkerchief be spread;
Around her shoulders let this arm be cast,
Whilst that from cold defends her slender waist;
With kisses warm her balmy lips shall glow,
Unchill'd by nightly damps or wintry snow,
While gen'rous white wine mull'd with ginger

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Delightful dreams their pleasing sports restore,
And e'en in sleep they seem to dance once more.
And now the work completely finish'd lies,
Which the devouring teeth of time defies.
While birds in air, or fish in streams we find,
Or damsels fret with aged partners join'd,
As long as nymphs shall with attentive ear
A fiddle rather than a sermon hear,
So long the brightest eyes shall oft peruse
The useful lines of my instructive muse,
Each belle shall wear them wrote upon her fan,
And each bright beau shall read them-if he

can.

$210. Whitsuntide.

Written at Winchester

Come, Christmas, father thou of mirth,
Patron of the festive hearth,
Around whose social evening flame
The jovial song, the winter game,
The chase renew'd in merry tale,
The season's carols, never fail :
Who, though the winter chill the skies,
Canst catch the glow of exercise,
Following swift the foot-ball's course;
Or with unresisted force,
Where frost arrests the harden'd tide,
Shooting 'cross the rapid slide;
Who, ere the misty morn is gray,
To some high covert hark'st away,
While Sport, on lofty courser borne,
In concert winds his echoing horn

College, on the immediate Approach of the With the deeply thund'ring hounds,

Holidays.

HENCE, thou fur-clad Winter, fly;

Sire of shivering poverty!

Who, as thou creep'st with chilblains lame
To the crowded charcoal flame,
With chattering teeth and ague cold,
Scarce thy shaking sides canst hold
Whilst thou draw'st the deep cough out:
God of foot-ball's noisy rout,
Tumult loud and boist'rous play,
The dang'rous slide, the snow-ball fray.
But come, thou genial son of Spring,
Whitsuntide, and with thee bring
Cricket, nimble boy and light,
In slippers red and drawers white;
Who o'er the nicely-measur'd land
Ranges around his comely band,
Alert to intercept each blow,
Each motion of the wary foe.

Or patient take thy quiet stand,
The angle trembling in thy hand,
And mark, with penetrative eye,
Kissing the wave, the frequent fly:
Where the trout with eager spring
Forms the many-circled ring,
And, leaping from the silver tide,
Turns to the sun his speckled side.

Or lead where health, a Naiad fair,
With rosy cheek and dropping hair,
From the sultry noon-tide beam,
Dives in Itchin's crystal stream.
Thy vot'ries, rang'd in order due,
To-morrow's wish'd-for dawn shall view,
Greeting the radiant star of light
With matin hymn and early kite:
E'en now, these hallow'd haunts among,
To thee we raise the choral song;
And swell with echoing minstrelsy
The strain of joy and liberty.
If pleasures such as these await
Thy genial reign, with heart elate
For thee I throw my gown aside,
And hail thy coming, Whitsuntide.

§ 211. Christmas. ROBERTS.
HENCE, Summer, indolently laid
To sleep beneath the cooling shade!
Panting quick with sultry heat,
Thirst and faint fatigue, retreat!

Whose clangor wild, and joyful sounds,
While echo swells the doubling cry,
Shake the woods with harmony.
How does my eager bosom glow
To give the well-known tally-ho!
Or show, with cap inverted, where
Stole away the cautious hare.
Or, if the blast of winter keen
Spangles o'er the silvery green,
Booted high thou lov'st to tread,
Marking, through the sedgy mead,
Where the creeping moor-hen lies,
Or snipes with sudden twittering rise;
Or joy'st the early walk to take
Where through the pheasant-haunted brake,
Oft as the well-aim'd gun resounds,
The eager-dashing spaniel bounds.

For thee of buck my breeches tight,
Clanging whip, and rowels bright,
The hunter's cap my brows to guard,
And suit of sportive green's prepar'd;
For since these delights are thine,
Christmas, with thy bands I join.

§ 212. An Elegy on the Death of a mad Dog. GOLDSMITH.

GOOD people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song,
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,

Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,

Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,

When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;
But, when a pique began,
The dog, to gain his private ends,
Went mad and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To ev'ry Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied;
The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that died.

§ 213. L'Allegro; or FUN, a Parody. HUDDERSFIELD.

OFF, blubbering Melancholy!
Of the blue devils and book-learning born,
In dusty schools forlorn;

Amongst black-gowns, square caps, and books unjolly,

Hunt out some college cell,

Through the street-door, or the area,
Or, in the country, through the dairy;
While the dustman, with his din,
Bawls and rings to be let in,
And at the fore, or the back-door,
Slowly plods his jades before.
Oft Hearing the sow-gelder's horn
Harshly rouse the snoring morn,
From the side of a large square,
Through the long street grunting far.
Sometimes walking I'll be seen
By Tower-hill, or Moorfields'-green,
Right against Old Bedlam-gate,
Where the mock king begins his state,
Crown'd with straw and rob'd with rags,
Cover'd o'er with jags and tags,
While the keeper near at hand

Bullies those who leave their stand:

And milk maids' screams go through your

ears,

And grinders sharpen rusty sheers,
And every crier squalls his cry
Under each window he goes by.

Straight mine eye hath caught new gambols,
While round and round this town it rambles;

Where muzzing quizzes mutter monkish Sloppy streets and foggy day,

schemes,

And the old proctor dreams;

Where the blundering folks do stray; Pavements, on whose slippery flags

There, in thy smutty walls o'errun with dock, Swearing coachmen drive their nags;

As ragged as thy smock,

With rusty, fusty fellows ever dwell.

But come, thou baggage, fat and free, By gentles call'd Festivity, And by us rolling kiddies, Fun, Whom mother Shipton, one by one, With two Wapping wenches more, To skipping Harlequino bore: Or whether, as some deeper say, Jack Pudding on a holiday Along with Jenny Diver romping, As he met her once a pumping, There on heaps of dirt and mortar, And cinders wash'd in cabbage-water, Fill'd her with thee a strapping lassie, So spunky, brazen, bold, and saucy. Hip! here jade, and bring with thee Jokes and sniggering jollity, Christmas gambols, waggish tricks, Winks, wry faces, licks and kicks, Such as fall from Moggy's knuckles, And love to live about her buckles; Spunk, that hobbling watchmen boxes, And Horse-laugh hugging both his doxies; Come, and kick it as you go, On the stumping hornpipe-toe; And in thy right-hand haul with thee, The Mountain brim French Liberty. And if I give thee puffing due, Fun, admit me of thy crew, To pig with her, and pig with thee, In everlasting frolics free; To hear the sweep begin his beat, And squalling startle the dull street, From his watch-box in the alley Till the watch at six doth sally; Then to go, in spite of sleep,

And at the window cry, "Sweep! sweep!"

Barbers jostled 'gainst your side,
Narrow streets, and gutters wide.
Grub-street garrets now it sees,
To the muse open and the breeze,
Where, perhaps, some scribbler hungers,
The hack of neighbouring newsmongers.
Hard by, a tinker's furnace smokes,
From betwixt two pastry-cooks,
Where Dingy Dick and Peggy, met,
Are at their scurvy dinner set,
Of cow-heel, and such cellar messes,
Which the splay-foot Rachael dresses !
And then in haste the shop she leaves,
And with the boy the bellows heaves;
Or if 'tis late and shop is shut,
Scrubs at the pump her face from smut.
Sometimes, all for sights agog,
To t' other end of the town I jog,
When St. James's bells ring round,
And the royal fiddles sound;
When every lord and lady's bum
Jigs it in the drawing-room;

And young and old dance down the tune
In honor of the fourth of June;
Till candles fail and eyes are sore,
Then home we hie to talk it o'er,
With stories told of many a treat,
How Lady Swab the sweetmeats eat;
She was pinch'd and something worse,
And she was fobb'd and lost her purse:
Tell how the drudging Weltjee sweat,
To bake his custards duly set,

When in one night ere clock went seven,
His 'prentice lad had robb'd the oven
Of more than twenty handfuls put in;
Then lies him down, a little glutton,
Stretch'd lumb'ring 'fore the fire, they tell ye,
And bakes the custards in his belly;

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