POETRY.
THE MINUET-DANCER.
So, my enchantress in the flowered brocade, You call an elder fashion to your aid, Step forth from Gainsborough's canvas and advance,.
A powdered Galatea, to the dance.
About you clings a faded, old-world air,
As though the link-boys crowded round your chair, As though the Macaronis thronged the Mall, And the French horns were sounding at Vauxhall. They tread the stately measure to its close, The silver buckles and the silken hose, Ladies and exquisites, that bend and sway, Brilliant as poppies on an August day.
You dance the minuet, and we admire, We dullards in our black and white attire, Whose russet idyll seems a mere burlesque, Set in a frame so far less picturesque.
Yet I take heart : for Love, the coatless rogue, Can scarcely heed what raiment be in vogue, Since in good sooth his negligence is known As something scandalous anent his own.
And so he whispers, Eyes were bright and brown, Long ere the powder-tax dismayed the town, And faithful shepherds still shall babble on, Although the rapiers and the frills be gone.
ALFRED COCHRANE.
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