Introduction.

FEW people will think that "The Waltz" has added much to Lord Byron's fame as a poet. It aroused such a storm of disapprobation at the time that he took the extraordinary step of disavowing the authorship. In a letter to Mr Murray, Lord Byron writes: "I hear that a certain malicious publication on Waltzing is attributed to me. This report I suppose you will take care to contradict, as the author, I am sure, will not like that I should wear his cap and bells." Moore adds that early in the spring of 1813 he brought out anonymously his poem on Waltzing, which, though full of very lively satire, fell so far short of what was now expected from him by the public that his disavowal of it found ready credence. The truth is that Lord Byron was hardly a fair critic of dancing. While on the committee of Drury Lane Theatre, he had. to arbitrate in a dispute between the ballet-master and a performer. "If you had come a minute sooner," said Lord Byron to Mr James Smith, who entered the green-room immediately afterwards, "you would have heard a curious matter decided on by me: a question of dancing!-by me" (looking down at his lame limb), "whom Nature from my birth has prohibited from taking a single step." His countenance fell when he had uttered the words, as if embarrassed by the inadvertent betrayal of feelings he would have wished to conceal. The picture of the Royal dukes leading the dance either preceded or followed a caricature of the period which gives, in the very bold treatment of colour our ancestors delighted in, all the details alluded to in "The Waltz."

The Waltz.

MUSE of the many-twinkling feet!1 whose charms

Are now extended up from legs to arms;
Terpsichore too long misdeem'd a maid-
Reproachful term-bestow'd but to upbraid--
Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine,
The least a vestal of the virgin Nine.

Far be from thee and thine the name of prude:
Mock'd, yet triumphant ; sneer'd at, unsubdued:
Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly,
If but thy coats are reasonably high;

Thy breast-if bare enough-requires no shield; Dance forth-sans armour thou shalt take the field,

And own-impregnable to most assaults,
Thy not too lawfully begotten "Waltz."

Hail, nimble nymph! to whom the young hussar,

The whisker'd votary of waltz and war,
His night devotes, despite of spur and boots;
A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his brutes:
Hail, spirit-stirring waltz!-beneath whose

banners

A modern hero fought for modish manners; On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's fame, Cock'd, fired, and miss'd his man-but gain'd his aim;

Hail, moving muse! to whom the fair one's breast
Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest.
Oh! for the flow of Busby, or of Fitz,
The latter's loyalty, the former's wits,
To "energise the object I pursue,"

And give both Belial and his dance their due!

Imperial Waltz! imported from the Rhine (Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine), Long be thine import from all duty free, And hock itself be less esteem'd than thee; In some few qualities alike—for hock Improves our cellar-thou our living stock. The head to hock belongs-thy subtler art Intoxicates alone the heedless heart :

Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims, And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs.

Oh, Germany! how much to thee we owe, As heaven-born Pitt can testify below, Ere cursed confederation made thee France's And only left us thy d-d debts and dances! Of subsidies and Hanover bereft,

We bless thee still-for George the Third is left!
Of kings the best-and last, not least in worth,
For graciously begetting George the Fourth.
To Germany, and highnesses serene,

Who owe us millions-don't we owe the queen ?
To Germany, what owe we not besides?
So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides;
Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood,
Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud:
Who sent us-so be pardon'd all her faults—
A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen-and Waltz.

But peace to her-her emperor and diet, Though now transferr'd to Buonaparte's "fiat !" Back to my theme-O Muse of motion! say, How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way?

Borne on the breath of hyperborean gales, From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yet had mails),

Ere yet unlucky Fame-compell'd to creep
To snowy Gottenburg-was chill'd to sleep;
Or, starting from her slumbers, deign'd arise,
Heligoland! to stock thy mart with lies;
While unburnt Moscow yet had news to send,
Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend,

4

She came-Waltz came-and with her certain

sets

Of true despatches, and as true gazettes;
Then flam'd of Austerlitz the blest despatch,
Which "Moniteur" nor "Morning Post" can
match;

And-almost crush'd beneath the glorious

news

Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's;
One envoy's letters, six composers' airs,
And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs;
Meiner's four volumes upon womankind,
Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind;
Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and, to back it,
Of Heyné, such as should not sink the packet.

Fraught with this cargo-and her fairest
freight,

Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate,

The welcome vessel reach'd the genial strand, And round her flock'd the daughters of the land.